stop stepping on my toes

I wasn’t there more than ten minutes before the man was talking to me about my feet.
It wasn’t the first time, he approached me once before – at the Corcoran.

I was there for the Robert Frank exhibit....

He came up to me and said,
“I can tell by the way you stand that you’ve
studied ballet.”

“You’re right,” I answered.
Little did he know I had been the funniest,
clumsiest ballerina on campus.

I tried to concentrate on the
images before me, a miner and his wife.
But he stayed right beside me and continued to
press.

“Did you see all of those beautiful photographs of the
young ballerinas?” he asked,
pointing to the other end of the
room.

“Yes,” I replied quite clippish. “The are. They are
beautiful.”

“I can tell by the way you stand, that you’ve studied
ballet,” he said. “Am I correct?”

“Yes,” I answered impatiently, I
thought we had been there already.
“A very long time ago.”

“Now, let me guess, second position, right?” he continued with his enthusiasm.
“No wait that would be wrong. On second thought, make my answer third!”

“It was a very long time ago,” I repeated. “I’m not sure.”
I was mad and sad and had not interest of talking of myself.

I continued to keep focus, my eyes fixed on the series
of photographs before me, a story of stark black images of the sooty coal miner
coming home to his from a day in the dark.

His face nearly black; his wide eyes and pearly white smile lit up the image. You could see
clearly how happy the man was to be home. Happy to be in her arms. Happy to be
stripping off his nasty dirty clothes to soak in the bath she had drawn for him.
As he soaked, just a few feet away, she’d put the final touches on supper,
listening to the stories he told of his day at the mine.

That’s where I wanted to be – not Pittsburgh, really, just somewhere cozy and comfortable, safe and content. Instead I was here, trying to shake some boar there beside me, talking to me about my
feet.

But like I said, that was months ago.
Tonight, it was sort of similar, but not quite the same.
We were at a G-Fine in Georgetown. It was an art opening. Lost and Found - a collection of discarded objects.
They had been reconfigured, fused together, taking new shapes.
Magically transforming the ordinary into art.

He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around. At first glance I didn’t recognize him.
I guess that day I had never really paid attention...

Curly red hair, thick bottled glasses, beady eyes, and a Pillsbury dough-like smile –
Just the sight of him made me a bit queasy.
Pervert, I thought, for no particular reason.
Poor guy, he was probably harmless.

“I really like your shoes,” he said. And that's when I remembered the Corcoran thing.

So he was there, I was there.
Once again he had snuck himself up on me.
And once again my feet were the point of his conversation.

“Thank you,” I said uneasily.

Truth of the matter is I wasn’t sure I liked them myself.
But his vote of confidence pretty much clinched the idea that maybe I didn’t.

I had liked them earlier that day - the shiny, red pair of platform Mary Janes...
When I put them on I thought that they were really saying something...

What they were saying exactly, I wasn’t sure,
but with me not really having much to say for myself these days,
I had kind of hoped they might inspire something.

That was hours ago.

Instead they had inspired the wrong sort of sentiment
and there I was standing trying to figure out
how I was going to shake this sort of man
who had nothing more about was me and my feet.

“Do you ever watch Sex in the City?” he asked.

“I don’t have cable,” I said,
averting my eyes to the cable that connected a gas pump to a bowling ball.

“You should! That show is all about shoes!” he said passionately.

“I’m sure it is,” I answered, pretending I knew nothing about Carrie and her long-term relationship with Jimmy Choo.

My discomfort was beginning to be contagious.
The disinterested crowd surrounding me
was growing more interested
and they were all staring down at my feet.

I tried to find some direction to divert to,
a little breathing room...but the place was packed.
Not a speck of white space to be found.

The wine man manning the wine bottle tried to come to my rescue.

“Here, let me top this off for you,” he consoled, filling my Dixie cup up to the top.
Clearly this crowd was familiar with this fellow who had nothing to speak of but feet.

“I think you’d relate well to the main character,” he said.
“I mean she has some really great shoes.”

“I doubt it,” I told him, gulping down the wine.
“We probably don't even share the same shoe size.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he replied.
“Besides, yours are clearly more functional.”

I looked at him – strangely I’m sure.
I wanted to tell him that he was wrong.
I wanted to tell him that these shoes were not functional,
that they had already gotten stuck in my bike spoke,
and they tripped over cobblestones.
They made too much noise, and hurt like hell to boot.

But more importantly, I just wanted him to go away.

So I just kept staring at him.
My cheeks were flushed, my pulse was high, I’m sure my nostrils were flaring.
Like a bull ready to charge, all I could see was red – and not just my shoes. I wanted my Xanex.

“Relax,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Perhaps... if you were in my shoes,” I barked, “Then maybe you’d know!”
Fully aware of the fact that he wouldn’t.

“Okay,” he said, arms up in the air.
Then he turned and walked away.

And I stood there in the “Lost and Found” exhibit, hating to be lost and found all at the same time.
Hating the fact that I had been in these shoes all night and I had absolutely no idea what was wrong.
Hating the fact that even if I put on a different pair tomorrow...
I still wouldn’t know – whether I walked a mile in them or not.

I finished my wine and went home.