Moojinorbit

Lately my brain’s been fixating on something of utter importance to the planet, up there with global warming, Africa, and the American presidential race, so I just have to share it with you.

Flats. And why I hate them.

Not Rocky Flats, silly. I’m talking about the regrettable invention of heelless, girly shoe-slippers.

Now, I can handle the waxing and waning of fashion trends that might be a little dumb. Working on a college campus, I’m used to seeing kids bust out items that, for example, were popular when I was in seventh grade, like Polo dresses and belted Oxford shirts. Last year when the girls were sporting braided espadrilles, as if they’d just been invented, I had to smile remembering how I coveted and finally secured a pale yellow pair of them back in Newport Beach in 1983–thereby narrowly retaining my position on the bare edge of “in” in materialist Orange County. At 40, I’m getting to an age where I’ve seen stuff come and go–fat belts, skinny belts, metallic accessories, low rise bell bottoms, high-waisted peg pants, straight skirts, pleated minis, and hippie skirts, and even the recent reappearance of stretchy cotton leggings, Lord help us. I try to stick with what I call “Classic Items,” so as to be able to stay at least minimally stylish while meeting my admittedly anorexic fashion budget.

But flats then and flats now are, in my view, never going to make the Classic Item grade, despite the fact that they seem to reappear like cockroaches or cupboard moths, as if to rub in your face that they’re here to stay.

Perhaps I should be a little more specific in my definition of flats before I let loose. I’m not referring to just any shoes that don’t have much of a heel–sandals, flip flops, even pseudo sneakers like these Keens, which I have to admit aren’t too offensive:
And I get that some people have to wear flats “for medical reasons”–like ladies with osteoporosis or, I don’t know, people with overbearing corns. It’s not that I expect women to run around in four-inch pumps so they can get caught up in computer cords and embarrass themselves like me (see “Moment of Grace,” below). Some women, like my mom, have simply done their time in heels and the bones have finally rebelled. Fine. People who HAVE to wear them can be exempted from the tirade (athough I have to ask, if you have corns or whatever, couldn’t you go for Danskos or a nice pair of comfy running shoes? Even Birkenstocks would be a reasonable option).

But seriously. I am baffled as to why women find shoes like these, also known as “Ballerina Flats”, in any way attractive (and, believe me, I didn’t even try to search out the most unattractive among them on Zappos.com):

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I just don’t get it. And I’m open to a rebuttal if any of you would like to come to the defense of flats and flat-wearers. But why in the world do you want to look like you’re a six year-old at a birthday party? I mean, why not pull on some white tights and a patent leather belt and put a big bow-barrette in your hair? Or why not wear a t-shirt that says, “Look, I’ve given up. I want to look frumpy, yet feminine, okay? I don’t care of they make my legs look like I just won the log rolling contest. I live in the suburbs. I HAVE GIVEN INTO FLATS!!!” (Actually, that’d be a badass t-shirt.)

Hmm. Maybe flats are a straight phenomenon, like purses or GMC SUVs or weddings. I can’t say that in memory I have ever seen a self-respecting lesbian wear flats (with the possible fictional Alice on the L-Word, and her “fashion choices” are the equivalent of Pluto in the lesbian orbit anyway). Flats would not only invalidate any butch points you might have racked up in a lifetime, but they’re gonna make you look ridiculous changing a tire or fixing the plumbing. I don’t know from personal experience, but they seem like they’d cause a really bad wipe out in the rain. Terry, can you weigh in on this? Have you ever worn flats?

I’m trying to anticipate possible reactions to this. The only answers I hear in my head are, “I think flats are cute.” Or, “but they look vintage,” or, “they’re the only thing that go with this jumper,” and don’t get me started on jumpers. Again, I’m open to argument, but for now I say:

Flats aren’t cute. They’re dumb. They’re infantilizing.
Also: ugly.
They make you look like you’re standing in a hole.
There are so many better options: Motorcycle boots could even redeem a jumper. Running shoes have the potential to balance out the sad taper of leggings. Combat boots are even better. And for chrissake, don’t ruin a nice pair of designer jeans with six-year-old birthday party slippers.
Tiny little bows do not make them sexy like lingerie.
Don’t fool yourself that they’re feminist just because they free you from heels. A battalion of women in stilettos would be way more intimidating than a flats-based revolution.
Fashion flats are a contradition in terms. Don’t buy it.
Finally, they really don’t suit a mooj.

Tell me I’m wrong.

p.s., This is a good example of why my book is not finished.

Sometimes the Divine just clearly wants us to be happy. This morning with my iHome alarm on shuffle (what I like to call The God Mix) I woke to Johnny Cash singing “Danny Boy,” followed by Kenny and Dolly’s “Islands in the Stream,” and polished off with Justin Timberlake, “Cry Me a River.” Ooh, that freaky combo just makes me roll out of bed giggling.

I’ve been lax on the blog lately, despite the fact that I have much I’m wanting to post about. I cannot miss the chance, though, to tell you a little story about my first day back in classes. This is dedicated to Jen, Caryn, and Viv, my fellow female professors and occasional pump-wearers.

So, I’m midway through my new Comparative Race Politics class yesterday afternoon. For a starter discussion about race in the U.S., we’re watching Obama’s historic March 18th race speech (about which I hope to post soon) via streaming video on YouTube. My MacBook is on a table at the front of the classroom, wired to a wall through both a power and an audio cord. I’ve also handed out copies of the transcript of the speech so folks can follow along.

I thought I’d disabled it, but at one point my screensaver starts, obscuring the video, so I go up to fix it. I should mention here that I’m feeling pretty cool for the first day of classes. I’m wearing my cream colored, inside out Banana Republic turtleneck under my (now vintage) Knit Wit blue blazer, Seven jeans, pointy brown leather pumps. I like a sassy outfit for the first day of the quarter; makes me feel confident on an otherwise mildly nervous day.

Casually paused, then, in front of the room, my pen and transcript in hand, I decide to take the short route back to the seat I’m watching from, which means stepping over the cords. I think to self something like, “careful: note hazard, maneuver delicately” –and I do, my right leg gracefully clearing the cords, which are a couple feet off the floor. What I hadn’t properly estimated was the long point of my left pump, which catches on the audio cord behind me and sends me lurching forward in horizontal slow-mo. Somehow I catch myself, sort of, with one hand against a desk, my right leg balancing me precipitously, like a fat gymnast on a balance beam, but there is a hell of a racket as the cords yank the computer off the table and everything is strained and literally dangling from my left leg. We lose audio and video, of course, the screen goes projector-blue, and all eyes are on me, embarrassed for me as I struggle to untangle myself from the attack-by-computer-peripherals. This takes many long, clumsy seconds and I try to laugh it off, but all cool I might have thought I embodied had has been instantly drained off. Now I know how pole vaulters feel when they fail to clear the line. In this dazed, this-is-not-happening mode, I somehow free my appendages and reattach the umbilici, the video continues, and I sheepishly sit back at my seat trying not to reveal that the top layer of epidermis on my left foot feels like it’s been scraped down with a razor.

Katie reminds me that this is a really good reason to get back into adult gymnastics and practice that back handspring I dream of busting out in the middle of class someday. Anything to redeem myself.

On Sunday the cleaning fairies shook me awake, pushed me out the door and tittered happily while I spent the better part of the day in a clearing out mode. This ritual satisfies me like few others.

I cropped dead heads off winter-weathered plants. I dug out layers of dried leaves caught between the early shoots of bushes, and I marveled at how well that layer of death had served for incubating delicate new growth, having been blankets for baby green tendrils beneath the cold. I pulled long tresses of blonde straw away from the prairie grasses, so the spring shoots could rise unencumbered. I admired the already budding lamb’s ear, velvety green, and the maroon shoots pushing themselves out of the rose bushes.

My daffodils rose up last week almost without my noticing, a sign that winter has officially lost its grip even if March and April snow storms will prove it not altogether impotent. The deep purple tulips are not far behind, their silky grey-green leaves aready waving enthusiastically out of the ground. In appreciation of these bulbs’ trustworthiness, I got down on my knees and yanked the carpet of fertile weeds out from around them, one by one. The earth being soft from a misty night before, I was even able to pull adolescent pig weed out all the way to its ten-inch roots, a most gratifying endeavor since, as Kris says, they seem to be held on the other end by Satan himself.

I hauled about five bags of detritus to the dumpster, gave the front lawn a long soak, and lounged with the cats in the sunshine of my little urban ‘backyard.’ The fragrance of the lavender and sage, which survived the winter intact, wafted through the air, and all things felt possible.

After awhile, I took a deep breath, walked into the house and swept and mopped every inch of the floors. Amazing how the dust bunnies reproduce even when sweeping (at least) is something I regularly attend to. I cleaned surfaces, relocated objects, threw stuff away, consolidated stacks to be filtered through more slowly, one bit at a time. Then I went over to T & A’s for another incredible food-high experience, which my mind was free to enjoy unburdened by a domestic ‘to do’ list.

All that remain to face are my offices at home and at work. I want to do it this week, but the dead leaves of ideas, tasks, obligations, reminders embedded in papers and notecards and stickies are so much more daunting to me that I have to push through resistance. But I’m going to do it, pulled by the payoff of how good having a fresh start for Spring Quarter will feel.

Finally, I’m gonna weed out any lingering beliefs that the work I need to do is too daunting, or that I am inadequate to the tasks ahead. I’m gonna keep plucking away at useless doubts and fears that sprout into my heart out of nowhere for no good reason. I want to haul all the detritus from my emotional past and pile the lessons on my patio for some organization who can use them to come pick up. Then I’m thinking I’ll hose down my psyche of bad habits–selfish inertia, detouring, fixating–and replant the seeds of calm focus, peaceful dedication, passionate engagement. All of which will leave me liberated to enjoy being in love in Springtime. Omm. Mmm. Ahhh.

To think we’ll be in full, regenerative bloom again soon. This is why I insist on living in a place with indisputable seasons.

Do you guys think I look fat in this picture? Maybe I need to slow down on the Scotchmallows…

Remember that post with the picture of me and Mary a month back? Well, this is the article that came out of that photo session. I think they chose a much happier picture in the end, and it was exciting, if somewhat embarrassing, to show up in a feature article. And, bizarrely, I’ve been getting all these emails from random people about it.

Enjoying my 15 minutes in the limelight. May it lead to more actual writing.