Image- Coleman/Classic Stock  

Running scared

No, I’m not running away. Really, I’m not. I’m okay. In truth, I am better than okay. I am great. I’m sort of surprised by how great I am. Nothing like a little earthquake to make you appreciate solid ground and for the most part I am crazy with solid ground. I like my life. Actually, I love the life I have created for myself. And I have so much to be grateful for, if I am not careful this post will turn into a “Belette’s gratitude list” post and that is not why I am here today. I don’t mean to belabor the point but I am REALLY and TRULY happy to be rid of “Dear John”. I don’t want to waste a moment more on something that doesn’t allow me to be all that I am. So, “Dear John”, if you are reading this…thanks so much for doing me the favor of saying goodbye.

Okay, enough of that. Let me get to the point of this post, I am running a 10K on Halloween weekend( Now do you get the title of this post?). I am running the 2011 L.A. Cancer Challenge that supports The Hirshberg Foundation For Pancreatic Cancer Research. My hope is to raise at least $1000 and I am hoping you might help me achieve this goal.  No donation is too small and no donation too large( feel free to help me exceed my goal). I’ve never done anything like this before and promise I won’t do this too often( I don’t want to turn my blog into a fund raising format, as I don’t want to take advantage of you, my dear and generous readers).

You, dear reader, are sweeter than Halloween candy without the pesky calories or resulting tooth decay. All of your support on my last post helped me more than I can say. With that said, I feel a little guilty asking you for more—but only a little guilty as it is a good cause. If you would like to help support me in my “Running Scared Halloween Adventure” please click over to my donation page. Thanks in advance for your kind support, in this and in all things.

I just got a Dear John letter

…It turns out that I was right. He  sent me a letter detailing why we aren’t a good match. I won’t share the details except to say that the idealizing wasn’t enough. It turns out that I am not enough for him. When we spoke he told me he told me he was telling me all of this now because he didn’t want to hurt me later. He said he didn’t want to hurt me because I am so “sweet”.

So its over and I will no longer get texts through out the day in which he calls me “Baby”, “Honey”, “Beautiful” and “Gorgeous”. He will no longer tell me how much he misses me or how he can’t wait until Wednesday. I will miss those texts. Those texts gave my last several weeks meaning and energy and excitement. No one will give me roses this week. No one is going to text me to remind me to eat. And for some reason that has me crying non-stop which makes getting ready for work a real challenge. Waterproof makeup can only go so far.

We were supposed to go to Mexico for the weekend. I had taken time off. I bought a bathing suit. I bought sunblock. I got a bikini wax. And now we aren’t going. And now I have the bathing suit and the bikini wax and nowhere to go. That said, I don’t care about the trip. I care about the loss of who I thought he was and the fun/joy/love I felt with him in my life and now he is gone. And for today I feel really and truly sad.

 

 

How to write about what I feel like I can’t write about

So I’m dating. I’m dating someone I like, someone I like a lot. And we are getting to know each other and we are in that phase in which we are idealizing each other and it is a whole lot of fun. It truly doesn’t suck to be idealized. He thinks I am sweet and smart and funny and gorgeous( I’ve got him hoodwinked;-). I think he’s adorable, funny, strong and sexy( and I am totally right about this). Even though we have only gone out ten time, he knows lots about me—he knows my feelings about religion, politics and sex and he knows that we both love salmon, chocolate, Carla Bruni and my dog( I LOVE the way he says “Lily”; It is almost as cute as the way he says “smoothy”)—but he doesn’t know about you and this blog and that is a bit weird.

Truth be told, he doesn’t even know the part of me that writes this blog. The part of me that writes this blog is the sassy, strong, and opionated part of myself and that hasn’t really come out to play yet in his presence. I am showing him more the sweet, romantic and highly-feminine part of myself which is as true and vital to who I am as is the Belette Rouge part of myself.

I do have some ideas about why I am holding back on revealing the LBR side of myself. I have a little relationship PTSD. This PTSD didn’t come from my marriage. This PTSD is a bit cumalative and can’t be blamed solely one guy—-but the original wound comes from Daddy. I got the message from Daddy and other men since then that they would prefer to be the smart, strong, sassy and opionated ones and that I ought to smile and nod and agree and generally be agreeable and a great audience. I also got the message that if I dared to be smart and strong and opionated that they would likely go away. As I didn’t want Daddy and men-like-daddy to go away I learned to be a fantastic audience and mute my passions and opinions.

So, in comes the adorable, funny, strong and sexy man that I am dating who thinks I am sweet, smart, funny and gorgeous and I find that I am shy and quiet and a bit disconnected from the me that writes this blog. I almost can’t imagine that I could connect to that part of myself in his presence and I don’t know if that is more about me or about him( my guess is that it is the former). I imagine that if and when he finds this blog and reads it and hears my “voice” that he will feel surprised and he will, perhaps, struggle to reconcile the me he knows with the me that he sees here. I worry that he won’t like this me. But there is another part of me that knows that if he doesn’t like this me then he is missing out and that I want to be with someone who likes all of me.

I talk about “my adorable, funny, strong and sexy BF” a lot in therapy. My therapist and I talk about how this relationship might make me grow. It is my therapist’s opinion that a relationship  that is predictable will be one that bores me. She believes that I require a relationship that challenges me and that this variety is the only one that I can stay in. One of the things I really like about “him” is what whenever I go to a neurotic place he is a bit impatient about it and will call me on it. Recently when he was going to pick me up at the airport my flight was delayed and I was overly apologetic about it.  I apologized over and over. He stopped me, ” I chose to pick you up. I want to be here. Stop apologizing.” I was stunned. There was something so strong, mature and psychologically sophisticated about his response. I heard him and I immediately quit apologizing.  There have been other examples when I started to spin out about something and he called me on it and instead of feeling hurt, wounded or in anyway offended, I found myself desperate to kiss him. His calling me on my shit, it turns out, is a major turn on for me.

Last night we had a moment when I felt something that wasn’t “sweet, feminine or agreeable”. I had an opinion. I had a feeling that wasn’t in alignment with his action. He could see it. “Are you mad?” he asked. “No,” I insisted. At the time I wasn’t sure that I wasn’t. But with 12 hours to consider I am convinced that I was not mad. What I was would be better described as disappointed.  So this morning I texted him and told him my opinion. I told him how I felt. I sent the text over four hours ago and I have yet to hear back from him. I am telling myself that I haven’t heard back from because he has a VERY busy Monday. I am telling myself that he can tolerate me having feelings. I am telling myself that if he can’t then it is better to know now. I am telling myself that no matter what happens I will be okay. And while self-talk is all well and good I would prefer to hear all of this from him. Um, “Adorable, funny, strong and sexy BF”, if you are reading this would you call me and tell me you understand; thanks.

Photo by Cindy Sherman, “Untitled #90“.

I hate to brag but I here I go, I have the number one memoir blog

The kind people at Adult Education Course.org have named La Belette Rouge the #1 of the top 50 memoir blogs. I am HIGHLY honoured. If you like reading memoir then check out their impressive list of memoir blogs.

Something about this honour has sort of kicked my memoir writing a** and has made me want to get writing again. Thank you, Adult Education!

 

What a difference a year makes

 
Can you see how happy I am? I hope it shows. If you can’t see my happiness then you can at least see my cute leopard shoes.

Ordinary day

Today I have had circled on my calendar for the last month. I have waited for it. I have talked to my therapist about it. I have prepared emotionally for it. My friends have texted me this morning to tell me they are thinking of me. Other friends will call tonight to check in with me to see how I am.

If I told you the bullet points of my day today it wouldn’t sound like a big deal to you.

  • I am taking today off.
  • I ran 2 miles.
  • I drank a cup of coffee and ate a Luna bar.
  • A gray and white horse, that lives next door to me, that I ordinarily embue with all kinds of magical and mystical qualities, seemed dull and ordinary to me today.
  • Ashley came to my house to do my hair.
  • I am going bird watching and I have no interest in doing so.
  • At 5 p.m. I am going to get waxed.
  • I have to buy files at Target.
  • I need to buy food.

That is it. That is my day in a nut shell. Nothing is happening that is BIG in terms of outer events. Today’s event is so subtle and quiet and without bells or whistles or any other indications that would make this a day that seems extraordianry that if you were with me, if you were to sit on my shoulder throughout this day you might not even know what exactly happened and why it all seems so serious to me. Actually, I am sure you couldn’t tell. This shift is almost entirely an interior one. Today is the end of something, I think. It is the beginning of something else. And I know it. I can feel it. It is undenaible. It looks like an ordinary day and it is, I suppose. Deaths and births always happen on ordinary days. They don’t seem ordinary to those to whom it happens but to everyone else they are ‘just another day’.

I know I am being vague, I need to be. And even as I am being vague now I have never been so aware of noting the details of a day as I know that today will be turned into an essay or a short story or a chapter of a book, I can feel it. Knowing that makes it more tolerable some how.

The writing will begin with…”On August 17th I had an ordinary day that changed everything.”

I was wrong

I don’t even know how to communicate to you how WILD it is to be here. Something about coming back to La Belette Rouge makes me so very aware of how very much my life has changed. I actually don’t like that last sentence as it makes it sound like the change happened to me and I didn’t make the changes. I am keenly aware of how I have changed my life and I am still doing so. And, let me just gloat for a minute, I LOVE my life. I LOVE it. Sure I am tired and overwhelmed and ocassionally scared and unsure, but I LOVE my life.

It has been six months since I left my marriage and let me take this blog post to explore some of my accomplishments, transformations and milestones during the last six months:

1. In the last six months I went from a VERY tiny workload( 2-3 clients a week) to working close to 50-hours a week. I had believed and would have adamantly told you that I wasn’t constitutionally capable of working so hard. I believed that 20-hours a week was my max and even then I would be EXHASUTED. I would have told you that I was a low energy person. I had this compelling argument about how as a therapist 20 hours a week is as much as one should work because it is emotionally demanding. Wrong!!! The more I do the more I can do. That said, I am kind of tired. Nine hour days are hard and harder still due to the three-hour-a-day commute.

2. I am still LOVING running, high-heels, and dresses.  These three things are often what keep my going when I am tired and would rather stay in bed. Running is when I tend to feel my strongest and freest( two of my favorite qualities). I am still recreating my new-life wardrobe and I have developed a bit of a Diane Von Furstenberg dress addiction. I will post pictures of my last three purchases. I am wanting, at this point in my life, only wanting to wear dresses. I am liking being girly and I love how dresses allow me to just throw them on and look put together.  I know that the gray dress looks kind of ordinary in the photo but it looks MUCH better on. And that first DVF dress looks AMAZING on. If I could I would wear it everyday—however it is a little too memorable for everyday use. And heels? yes, I still am wearing them and I don’t care if they are a crutch or a symbol of a midlife crisis; I love them.

3. I have been able to take care of myself. I have done all kinds of things I NEVER thought I could do. I get my own gas. I have bought tires. I have gotten the oil changed. I installed a DVD player. I manage to do my own laundry and go to the grocery store after working ALL day long. I am sure you have been doing that for years but for me this is all new stuff and I am proud of myself. I am REALLY proud of how I have gone way beyond surviving. I believe that I am thriving. And I believe that I was lying to myself for years about my inability. I tell you this not to berate myself but to perhaps inspire you to ask you if you are someway not seeing all that you are capable of. You and me and everyone are all capable of MUCH more than we think we are.

4. I’m dating and I like it. Dating can be fun. I didn’t ever imagine I would say that again. And I never imagined that there would ever experience another “first kiss”; I was wrong again. I am reading a wonderful book on relationship that is protecting me from repeating old patterns, “The Eden Project: In Search of the Magical Other“. It is a must read for anyone dating or who has a danger to idealize the Other as the answer to all your prayers( those in search of a Soul Mate must read this book).

5. I am planning upcoming trips to Paris, Chicago and Portland, Oregon. None of these trips are particularly “weird”. What is weird is that I have absolutely no interest in visiting Lake Forest or Bluff when I am back in Chicago. Can you believe it??????

6. I learned that I love Whole Foods Golden Soy Tofu.  I thought I hated tofu; I don’t hate it. I actually make special trips just to stock up on tofu. Who the hell am I?????? I have decided that I don’t know what I like and that I am going to approach the world and my preferences with an attitude of curiosity.


7. I have, thanks to my gorgeous and generous friend, Cynthia, discovered my Holy Grail fragrance. My signature perfume of this time in my life is Carnal Flower by Dominique Ropion for Frederik Malle. Every time I spray this fragrance on I am reminded of my boldness, strength, femininity, power and willingness to risk. It’s an unusual for a fragrance to serve as a mirror but yet it is doing just that. I wish I could scent this post with a few spritzes—-it is GORGEOUS.  A man who recently hugged me told me that I smell like a very expensive Indian Goddess. I am not sure what it means but I liked hearing it.

8.I got hair and lash extensions. Silly? Maybe. But its fun. I like not having to wear mascara and I like having long and thick hair; it’s fun and  sometimes fun is enough reason to do something.  Want to see my new hair and lashes? Here is a picture:

9. I have during the last six months felt continually grateful that I live in L.A. and that I didn’t ever get pregnant. This is miraculous and reminds me of how we never know how something will workout in the long run. I think so often of what Truman Capote said, ” ‘More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.’

10. I haven’t had a lot of time for writing or thinking or blogging and that is sad. But it does feel important during this phase of my life to put the blogging and over-thinking on hold. That said, I so miss you all. I miss your blogs, your comments and *seeing* you as much as I used to. Almost daily I will think of you all and wish that there were more hours in the day.

 

La Belated Rouge

I keep thinking about my blog and about writing something. Mostly I think about it when things are going REALLY well(those periods are short-lived and I tend not to want to write during that happy time as I want to enjoy it and not stop to over think it) or when things are not going so well and I find myself not wanting to complain about my life as I imagine an imaginary reader who upon reading my post says something like, “You made your choices or your bed and you have to live with them and lie in it.” I don’t know who this imaginary reader is but I can tell you that she/he is judgemental and harsh and sounds a lot like my inner critic/superego.

Most of my choices I continue to be really happy with. I am loving my job as a therapist at a fitness camp. I LOVE it.  I love the work, the clients, the co-workers and how busy I am. I am really and truly happy there and happily I am starting to get even busier there which is great because I need the money (ThinkThin bars, high heeled shoes, size 8 dresses, and Laura Mercier moisturizer all cost money).  So work is good. My house is good. I am happy about my single status. I am still loving running and am even going to do a 10K. But something is up, something I can’t talk about( I ALWAYS HATE that) and this something is making me grow like a son of a bitch. It is making me work my ass off in therapy. I go into therapy with a full face of makeup and I sob and I cry and I say how fucking hard this all is and I cry some more and I hug the box of Kleenex like it is teddy bear and when the session is gone my face is cleaner than if I had taken a Neutrogena makeup removing towelette to it. And my eyes are red and my face is puffy and I have to put on my sunglasses before I walk out the door and I take a handful of Kleenexes to go because I will cry more when I get out of my therapist’s office and even more when I get into the car.

Yesterday when I saw my newish therapist, let’s call her Pamela, I was telling her how weak I feel and how torn apart I am and how I want her to give me something to break the spell and make me feel differently and take away my ache. I looked at her, my eyes pleading, and hoping that if I looked hard enough at her she would cop to having a secret potion in her desk drawer next to her ink cartridges and under her box of paper clips. Pamela, if she had such a potion, offered me none of it. She instead asked me how I was going to get through this hard time. I wanted to give her some answer that spoke to my psychological sophistication or some kind of Zen like calm that came from the core of my being, instead I told her that I am going to work my ass off. She “uh-huhed” me in her steely cool analytic way.

You see, I am working my ass of at work. I am working a lot. A lot. And before and after work I am working my ass of in a more literal fashion. I have added more exercise to my already challenging exercise routing; I am Spinning and doing Bikram yoga and soon I will be adding The Barre Method to my list of ass busting exercises. This working my ass off is not at all inspired by the need to change my body as, truth be told, I am pretty happy with my body as it is, but rather I am feeling so emotionally run weakened by that which I can’t name that I need to feel my physical strength as an antidote or counterbalance. And it’s working. Yesterday, when I was spinning my ass off and taking that hill and doing thigh burning intervals and pushing myself as hard as I could, I felt strong and I felt like I could endure things and I REALLY need to feel that. I need to feel it so much that when I get off of work tonight, after 8 hours of seeing patients, I will get myself to the Spin studio and I will feel my strength again and for 60 minutes I will not think about what I can’t talk about and that is as close to grace as I have ever felt—or at least as much grace as I can hope for today.

What smarty-pants psychoanalysts say about shoes that defends my obsession

This shoes thing won’t let me go. For over 20-years I have been unable to do heels. I had foot problems. I was a Pisces who was more suited to swimming than walking. I was imbalanced. I couldn’t stand the pain. I was constitutionally incapable of walking in them. High-heels were just for special occasions. I needed a man to wear them, as I needed someone to lean on in order to walk in them. I could wear them for only brief periods of time. Valet parking was a must if heels were going to be worn. Only now I can walk blocks in them. I can wear them all day. I wear them alone. And I don’t need to valet park in order to wear them. So what’s happened? I have the same feet. If anything, I would imagine with age that I would be less likely to be able to tolerate four-inch heels than more. The only way I know how to make sense of this is to look at it symbolically as it can’t really be explained physically.

According to J.E. Cirlot in A Dictionary of Symbols, shoes are often symbolic of the vagina. Cirlot points to Cinderella as a story that uses shoes to symbolize female sexuality. Not surprisingly Freud saw the shoe or slipper a “symbol of the female genitals.” In symbolism, the shoe has is largely associated with fertility customs, marriage and romance. For example: The custom of tying shoes to the newlyweds car, which is symbolic of the sexual union.

The Erotic Foot” makes this interesting argument that might explain my new passion for shoes that perch me higher, “The high heel and the position it creates for the foot is a strong sexual stimulus. The feet are plantar-flexed (not perpendicular to the leg as they are in a relaxed position). This is the position emphasized for the foot in any centerfold picture. It is also achieved in the sexy crossing of legs where one foot teasingly flexes forward. The extension of the foot, pointing of the toes, particularly with a circular movement, is a strong body language signal saying “I’m available.” So perhaps my choice of foot wear speaks to my availability.

The Jungian analyst and writer, Marie-Louise Von Franz describes the symbolism of shoes in the following manner: “If we start from the hypothesis that the shoe is simply the article of clothing for covering the foot and that with it we stand on the earth, then the shoe is the standpoint, or attitude toward reality. There is much evidence for this. The Germans say when someone becomes adult that he “takes off his childish shoes,” and we say that the son “steps into his father’s shoes” or  “follows in his father’s footsteps” – he takes on the same attitude.” In that vein, it is interesting to note that the moment I knew that my marriage was over came through a pair of shoes that no longer fit. The running shoes went wrong made me aware that I needed to leave my marriage. And within a month of leaving my marriage my ability to wear high heels returned. (It is also interesting to note that He-weasel would still be taller than me in most heels, so it wasn’t out of consideration for him that I chose not to wear them). If we look at the running shoe as a shoe that should have allowed freedom of movement, speed and support and that it no longer did and how the running shoe has been replaced by a shoe that is less practical,less supportive and  more beautiful—we can see how the shoe might, as a shift in attitude and a differing standpoint then I had before. My decision might have not been practical and it left me less supported and yet my life is feeling more beautiful, and more my own.

In April( a month after the seperation), when I bought my first pair of high-heels as soon as I stepped into them I noticed feeling more powerful, sexual, visible, and much more feminine. In them I have to walk slower and more carefully but walking in heels creates a kind of deliberate awareness that I never had when walking in flats. Heels slow me down and as I am in this state of transition and am using action as a way to tolerate my anxiety, the heels work as a counter-balancing agent to my impulse to run-run-run as fast as I can.

Also important to my heel obsession is how during the same time I have given flats the boot, I have had two pretty big falls. Both falls were so signifigant that I might be left with a long term scar to remind me of them. The first fall was so scary that it almost stopped me from running. A month later when I fell again I got back up and didn’t even assess my wound before getting back into the game.  I don’t know exactly how this relates to the heels, I suppose it makes the attraction to the heels feel even stronger and more important. If I am falling and feeling a bit unstable then the fact that I am choosing 4 1/2 inch sandles and not orthapedic shoes tells me that the psychic significance of this object choice is even MORE significant. I am willing to risk the fall in order to have the heights. I suppose one might rewrite that sentence and say, “I am willing to risk falling/failing in order to have this elevated life.”

I still don’t know exactly what my ability to walk in heels is all about….but I am seriously enjoying the question, the seeking the answer, the resulting ruminations and, of course, the shoes themselves. I wanted to share with you a few things that sparkle with meaning for me as I explore this topic:

1) The blogger, Dorothea, who writes the brilliant blog, Another Door, had this to say on the subject: “You can walk in heels now because you aren’t carrying all that old weight on your shoulders, throwing off your balance. You can walk in heels now because it’s like being on tip-toe and you want to be the first to see what’s coming over the horizon. You can walk in heels now because you know that if you fall down, you can get right back up. You can walk in heels now because your legs are strong from all that running (running toward, not running away from). You can walk in heels now because you are excited about taking up as much space and attention in the world as possible.” I think she is absolutely right.  Actually, in all things I think she is absolutely right. She is a brilliant writer and you MUST read her.

These shoes.

3) This fantastic quote that follows by, the author and psychoanalyst, Christopher Bollas which does a FANTASTIC job explaining my current obsession with heels.  However, if you find reading psychoanalytic literature to be tedious, here is what Bollas says in a nutshell: We need an object to release the self into expression. What that means for me is that  at this point in my life, I need high-heeled shoes in order to become myself.

If you do like psychoanalytic reads or would like a highfalutin explanation for your shoe love then read on. Now, I am handing my blog over to Christopher Bollas, famed psychoanalyst(Please, when reading, replace the word “object” with “high-heeled shoes”. The management thanks you for your cooperation).
“Certain objects, like psychic ‘keys,’ open doors to unconsciously intense — and rich — experience in which we articulate the self that we are through the elaborating character of our response. This selection constitutes the jouissance of the true self, a bliss released through the finding of specific objects that free idiom to its articulation. As I see it, such releasings are the erotics of being: these object both serve the instinctual need for representation and provide the subject with the pleasures of the object’s actuality…

Those objects and experiences, keys to the releasing of our idiom, free us to experience the depth of our being and of the interplay between the movement of our idiom, driven by the force of our instincts, and the unconscious system of care provided by our mother and father. We are forever finding objects that disperse the objectifying self into elaborating subjectivities, where the many ‘parts of the self’ momentarily express discrete sexual urges, ideas, momories, and feelings in unconscious actions, before condensing into a transcendental dialectic, occasioned by a force of dissemination that moves us to places beyond thinking.…

… Do I select objects that disseminate my idiom or not? For example, do I pick up a novel which I don’t like but think I should read — but through which I shall not come into my being — or do I select a novel which I like, into which I can fall, losing myself to multiple experiences of self and other? Do I have a sense of this difference of choice? What if I don’t? What if I do not intuitively know which object serves me? If I don’t know then my day is likely to be a fraught or empty occasion. Neuroitic conflict eradicates, at least for a time, potential objects.… Or I may choose an object because it is meant to resolve a state of anxiety or to recontact a split-off part of myself housed there. In other words, pathology of mind biases the subject toward the sleection of objects that are congruent with unconscious illness.…

The ego chooses not only what aspect of an object to use but also what subjective mode to employ in the use.…

We can learn much about about any person’s self experienceing by obseriving his selection of objects, not only because object choice is lexical and therefore features in the speech of character syntax, but also because it may suggest a variation in the intensity of psychic experience that each person chooses. If we live an active life, then we will create a subjectified material world of psychic significance that both contains evocative units of prior work and offers us new objects that bring our idiom into being by playing us into our reality.”
From, On Being a Character: Psychoanalysis and Self Experience, 1992 by Christopher Bollas

 

By their shoes you shall know them

Okay, that isn’t a famous quote. I think that the actual quote that I have intentionally misquoted is biblical and it goes something like, “by their works you shall know them.” But my father wasn’t one to throw around a bible verse. The closest he came to the word of God was a spirited “God damn it, Audrey, we are out of Vodka.” However my dad was big on maxims, pronouncements and emphatic declarations. One of those was about shoes. He warned me not to be fooled by a well dressed man. He warned me to look at a man’s shoes to determine his measure of worth. The shoes, he instructed, revealed everything one needed to know about a person.

You see, my dad took his shoes seriously. He always did. My father wore Ferragamo, Bruno Maglis and shoes whose names reminded me of unusual and obscure shapes of spaghetti. And, my father never ever-ever-ever wore tennis shoes unless he was playing tennis. He wore walking shoes when he walked. He wore golf shoes when he golfed and the rest of the time he wore serious shoes that he seriously tended to. He cared for his shoes with more affection and attention than I ever received from him. Each shoe had a fragrant cedar shoe tree that filled them with hardwood protection when unworn. He polished his shoes with great care and frequency. He used a cloth diaper to  bring out a mirror like sheen in the Italian leather that served as a self-object and he quipped about how the only time a diaper was ever in his hand was when he was buffing a Bruno Magli. There were weekend trips made to his special shoe guy who was the sole trustees of my father’s collection. And there were soft felt bags that housed my father’s brogues, loafers and oxfords when he traveled.

My dad and I didn’t have a lot of topics of conversation in common. We would talk about my grandmother, sports, a funny story or two and if out in the world together it was always a safe bet to point out a man who was wearing bad shoes. That last one was much like playing with a wind up toy, I would find a guy with terrible shoes and I would point them out to my father and ask, in seeming sincerity, “What do you think of those?” What would follow was an impassioned and often sarcastically delightful diatribe on the importance of a good shoe and what an idiot the guy in question was for wearing low-grade shoes.

I bring this up because I am thinking a lot about shoes lately. I am thinking about how ever since I separated that I can no longer wear flats. All I can wear are heels and not just a little heel but serious heels. I am thinking about how strange that is as before, when I lived with my husband, I was a flat wearer and didn’t believe I had the balance, coordination or pain tolerance for heels and how now, each and everyday you can find me in a four-inch to four-and-a-half inch heel. I am thinking about what this means and how I have changed and how I transformed from a flat wearing Mrs. to a heel wearing Ms. and what exactly this means. I don’t have answers yet, but I can’t stop thinking about the question. I don’t think that if my father was alive that he would have any helpful interpretations for my new heights, however I do think that he would appreciate knowing that each man I look at, if he seems worth a second look, that it is his shoes that gets the second look to see if the gentlemen in question is well heeled. I think he would have liked that a lot.

*The shoe pictured is the Ann Taylor Addie Sandal and it is 4.5 inches high and I can walk in it with the same ease as I can a Roger Vivier flat. Walking on water was a miracle, no question. Me walking on a 4.5 inch heel, me thinks, is even more miraculous.

About Me

My name is Tracey, aka La Belette Rouge. I am a psychotherapist and the author of Freudian Sip @ Psychology Today. I blog about psychology, my therapy, dreams, writing, meaning making, home, longing, loss, infertility and other things that delight or inspire me. I try to make deep and elusive psychodynamic concepts accessible and funny. For more information, click here .

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