"I'll tell you what, Sissy, I'll buy you those tennis shoes, but I'll also buy you these high heels, and when you're not at school, you'll wear the high heels." I looked in my dad's eyes, then at the floor, considering, knowing I didn't want to make that bargain but I did want the tennis shoes. I already knew at this point that life was going to be a long cycle of compromising with people who wanted me to be something I wasn't, in exchange for a little bit of who I really was. So, I left that store with both the tennis shoes I wanted and the heels that I knew were going to be the bane of my existence.
I did try to uphold my end of the bargain, but, really, I never wore shoes at all when I was at home, preferring instead to run our property in my bare feet, the feel of the earth beneath me, connecting me to a source I didn't yet recognize but one I knew I must have. But, my inner sense of honor kept forcing those shoes to the front of my consciousness, and they called to me, demanding I uphold my end of the bargain.
They were beautiful shoes, and I picked them out myself, trying them on and taking them for a spin mostly out of curiosity. Light tan, about a two-inch heel, nothing too risque or dangerous for a first run, but I wasn't born to them. I do believe the wearing of heels is a natural born talent. So, I wore them when I went to the grocery store, when I went to check the mail, sometimes just around the house, trying to get my ankles to behave, trying out different step patterns because the sound of the heels on the floor annoyed me, goodbye ninja moves, and ended up with a walk I'm sure looked awkward and unnatural.
My hatred for the shoes grew quickly, as did my disgust at myself. I'd seen this done a million times. Women all over the world were doing this every day, all day; what was wrong with me?! But this was a journey, and the next step in the journey, the next natural step for parents seeing their daughter blossoming into womanhood, apparently, was pantyhose. Word to those who come after me; you can not hand a chubby twelve-year-old a pair of pantyhose with no more instruction than, "put these on"!
What followed could have been a circus act if it hadn't been so pitiful. I pulled them from the pack and just stood there looking at them in awe and not a little trepidation. I was not a thin girl, by any standard, and the first thing I noticed was those things didn't look like they'd fit my nine-year-old sister, who was a "thin girl". But I'm an optimist, and never afraid to try, so try I did.
First, I tried to put them on like I put on my pants. One leg, all the way up to above the knee, then the next leg. Big mistake. I ended up flat on my back on my bed, one leg straight out in the air, the other leg bent back to my chest as I struggled to get my foot first into the pantyhose and then all the way down to the toe area, rolling side to side, struggling to take in air, face red, sweat beading. Finally, the legs went down and I just flopped on the bed trying to catch my breath, knowing there had to be an easier way to do this.
Next, I tried first one foot, then the other, slowly working them up my legs in tandem. Ten minutes later I had them back up to just above the knee and was feeling much like the first man on the moon must have felt. This was uncharted territory, and I was doing it! But, Houston, we had a problem. The combination of the "control top panty" and the softly rounded thighs topped by well-padded womanly hips was enough of a struggle to throw me into a temper tantrum of historic proportions which resulted in me ripping the pantyhose off and throwing them on the floor to be stomped on, repeatedly. There was sweat and there were tears. The blood would come later.
Through sheer determination and lots of practice, I did eventually learn how to get pantyhose on, but it was not a pretty process, and let me say it was a wise decision to sell them in packs of three. Who knew a hangnail could be so destructive? I was feeling especially proud of myself at this point. I had conquered the pantyhose, and I could walk with some semblance of normalcy in the heels.
And then appeared the dress to match. Should have seen that coming. I donned them all and took off down the hill to Grandma's house to show off my accomplishments. I was a young woman! A young woman who wore pantyhose and heels and I had the world by the tail. Until I spotted my sister sitting on the swing halfway there.
When I think back on what happened next, like many such episodes in my life, I remember in slow motion. Live Technicolor; reel by reel. That rope swing, hanging from the biggest oak tree in our front yard, was the pinnacle of my childhood, and my sister my lifelong playmate. And there I stood, at a crossroads between childhood and adulthood. I wanted to swing with my sister, and I wanted to show off my new clothes. "Come give me a push, Ginny." my sister said. I did waiver. I hesitated, looking at Grandma's house and back at Leona on the swing. And again, I decided to compromise. I would give her one good push and then go on to Grandma's.
The best push, the most economical when you don't have a lot of time, the one that will give maximum height to the swinger is, of course, the "over-under". So, I positioned myself behind my sister, grabbed the seat of the swing, and pulled her back and as high as I could before taking off at a dead run, thrusting her over my head while I went under the seat of the swing. It was a perfectly executed "over-under", gold medal worthy had it been an Olympic event.
And then it happened. I was betrayed by my ankles. Ankles that protested heels. Ankles that had apparently been plotting revenge against me from the beginning for forcing them to hold a position that the human ankle was not intended to hold for lengthy periods of time. In mid-stride my ankle just ... let go, throwing me to the ground. Of course, I was still on a dead run downhill, and science being what it is, I did not come to a sudden and complete stop. No, I continued downhill on my stomach for a good 10 feet. Arms stretched out trying to stop myself and looking like the star player sliding into the home base to save the game.
I could hear my sister laughing. Hysterically. Like, had to stop the swing so she wouldn't fall off, laughing. After catching my breath and assuring myself that nothing was broken, hoping for the best, I picked myself up to assess the damage. I was a mess. The dress was now dirty, the pantyhose were shredded, and I was bleeding from scraped arms and knees. I was devastated.
I think it was in that moment that I made the decision to draw the first line in the sand when it came to compromise. There would be many more lines to come, but that was the first. I wasn't the high heels, pantyhose, dresses, hours putting on makeup and styling my hair kind of girl. I'm a keep it simple, slap on some mascara, jeans and t-shirts for comfort, flip-flops girl. And that's okay. I'm okay with that.
It was a struggle and there was a price to pay because of course people can't "let you be". I've spent my life being bombarded with well-meaning advice on how to be a better me. A prettier girl. Some were hurtful, extremely judgmental, and downright rude but, I digress. Nothing is harder for young people trying to fit in and be accepted by peers than to be "different". I have since found my comfort level and enjoy dressing up, the make-up,and even heels but still, by their very existence, the "girly-girls" make me feel inferior.
Don't get me wrong. I do have female friends. Women I admire and love. Women of great beauty. Not because of their visage, but because of their spirit and strength. Women are amazing creatures. They will reach out from within their own pain and comfort another. They will cry tears for you and with you. They can draw you out and hold you down. They will fight with tooth and claw and love with tender mercies. And, if you are patient and kind, they will show you their true beauty in all its splendor. Beauty queens, tomboys, plain Janes, and the girl-next-doors. All of them that I hold dear are forever exquisitely beautiful to me.
But those shoes at the beginning of my story? I knew in my gut that those shoes were not for me. They were nothing more than the passing curiosity of a young woman trying to feel her way. I didn't want them, but I did want to please my father, and I did want to try to fit in so I wouldn't stand out. Because that is what our society teaches us; to fit in as opposed to standing out. I wasn't of an age to question any of it and at that stage of life "standing out" can be quiet scary and uncomfortable.
But, that was exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to stand out, be my own self, not conform to social pressures that made absolutely no sense and really had no definitive value to me. Everything in me resisted conformity and even though I manage to fake it, for the most part, it's a constant struggle. It was and is an uncomfortable state for me. I don't think at the heart of it all that we are meant to conform.
Unfortunately, the non-conformers are given labels that are designed to set us apart from the conformers; to shame us into conforming. Just labels. I'm learning to feel them. Acknowledge them. Even embrace them. I will continue to try to be my most authentic self, in spite of, and in direct defiance to, the pressure to spend what may well be my only life conforming to an existence others believe is proper and necessary. Conformity is for society's comfort; not the individual's.
G. Jones 2018
"I'll tell you what, Sissy, I'll buy you those tennis shoes, but I'll also buy you these high heels, and when you're not at school, you'll wear the high heels." I looked in my dad's eyes, then at the floor, considering, knowing I didn't want to make that bargain but I did want the tennis shoes. I already knew at this point that life was going to be a long cycle of compromising with people who wanted me to be something I wasn't, in exchange for a little bit of who I really was. So, I left that store with both the tennis shoes I wanted and the heels that I knew were going to be the bane of my existence.
I did try to uphold my end of the bargain, but, really, I never wore shoes at all when I was at home, preferring instead to run our property in my bare feet, the feel of the earth beneath me, connecting me to a source I didn't yet recognize but one I knew I must have. But, my inner sense of honor kept forcing those shoes to the front of my consciousness, and they called to me, demanding I uphold my end of the bargain.
They were beautiful shoes, and I picked them out myself, trying them on and taking them for a spin mostly out of curiosity. Light tan, about a two-inch heel, nothing too risque or dangerous for a first run, but I wasn't born to them. I do believe the wearing of heels is a natural born talent. So, I wore them when I went to the grocery store, when I went to check the mail, sometimes just around the house, trying to get my ankles to behave, trying out different step patterns because the sound of the heels on the floor annoyed me, goodbye ninja moves, and ended up with a walk I'm sure looked awkward and unnatural.
My hatred for the shoes grew quickly, as did my disgust at myself. I'd seen this done a million times. Women all over the world were doing this every day, all day; what was wrong with me?! But this was a journey, and the next step in the journey, the next natural step for parents seeing their daughter blossoming into womanhood, apparently, was pantyhose. Word to those who come after me; you can not hand a chubby twelve-year-old a pair of pantyhose with no more instruction than, "put these on"!
What followed could have been a circus act if it hadn't been so pitiful. I pulled them from the pack and just stood there looking at them in awe and not a little trepidation. I was not a thin girl, by any standard, and the first thing I noticed was those things didn't look like they'd fit my nine-year-old sister, who was a "thin girl". But I'm an optimist, and never afraid to try, so try I did.
First, I tried to put them on like I put on my pants. One leg, all the way up to above the knee, then the next leg. Big mistake. I ended up flat on my back on my bed, one leg straight out in the air, the other leg bent back to my chest as I struggled to get my foot first into the pantyhose and then all the way down to the toe area, rolling side to side, struggling to take in air, face red, sweat beading. Finally, the legs went down and I just flopped on the bed trying to catch my breath, knowing there had to be an easier way to do this.
Next, I tried first one foot, then the other, slowly working them up my legs in tandem. Ten minutes later I had them back up to just above the knee and was feeling much like the first man on the moon must have felt. This was uncharted territory, and I was doing it! But, Houston, we had a problem. The combination of the "control top panty" and the softly rounded thighs topped by well-padded womanly hips was enough of a struggle to throw me into a temper tantrum of historic proportions which resulted in me ripping the pantyhose off and throwing them on the floor to be stomped on, repeatedly. There was sweat and there were tears. The blood would come later.
Through sheer determination and lots of practice, I did eventually learn how to get pantyhose on, but it was not a pretty process, and let me say it was a wise decision to sell them in packs of three. Who knew a hangnail could be so destructive? I was feeling especially proud of myself at this point. I had conquered the pantyhose, and I could walk with some semblance of normalcy in the heels.
And then appeared the dress to match. Should have seen that coming. I donned them all and took off down the hill to Grandma's house to show off my accomplishments. I was a young woman! A young woman who wore pantyhose and heels and I had the world by the tail. Until I spotted my sister sitting on the swing halfway there.
When I think back on what happened next, like many such episodes in my life, I remember in slow motion. Live Technicolor; reel by reel. That rope swing, hanging from the biggest oak tree in our front yard, was the pinnacle of my childhood, and my sister my lifelong playmate. And there I stood, at a crossroads between childhood and adulthood. I wanted to swing with my sister, and I wanted to show off my new clothes. "Come give me a push, Ginny." my sister said. I did waiver. I hesitated, looking at Grandma's house and back at Leona on the swing. And again, I decided to compromise. I would give her one good push and then go on to Grandma's.
The best push, the most economical when you don't have a lot of time, the one that will give maximum height to the swinger is, of course, the "over-under". So, I positioned myself behind my sister, grabbed the seat of the swing, and pulled her back and as high as I could before taking off at a dead run, thrusting her over my head while I went under the seat of the swing. It was a perfectly executed "over-under", gold medal worthy had it been an Olympic event.
And then it happened. I was betrayed by my ankles. Ankles that protested heels. Ankles that had apparently been plotting revenge against me from the beginning for forcing them to hold a position that the human ankle was not intended to hold for lengthy periods of time. In mid-stride my ankle just ... let go, throwing me to the ground. Of course, I was still on a dead run downhill, and science being what it is, I did not come to a sudden and complete stop. No, I continued downhill on my stomach for a good 10 feet. Arms stretched out trying to stop myself and looking like the star player sliding into the home base to save the game.
I could hear my sister laughing. Hysterically. Like, had to stop the swing so she wouldn't fall off, laughing. After catching my breath and assuring myself that nothing was broken, hoping for the best, I picked myself up to assess the damage. I was a mess. The dress was now dirty, the pantyhose were shredded, and I was bleeding from scraped arms and knees. I was devastated.
I think it was in that moment that I made the decision to draw the first line in the sand when it came to compromise. There would be many more lines to come, but that was the first. I wasn't the high heels, pantyhose, dresses, hours putting on makeup and styling my hair kind of girl. I'm a keep it simple, slap on some mascara, jeans and t-shirts for comfort, flip-flops girl. And that's okay. I'm okay with that.
It was a struggle and there was a price to pay because of course people can't "let you be". I've spent my life being bombarded with well-meaning advice on how to be a better me. A prettier girl. Some were hurtful, extremely judgmental, and downright rude but, I digress. Nothing is harder for young people trying to fit in and be accepted by peers than to be "different". I have since found my comfort level and enjoy dressing up, the make-up,and even heels but still, by their very existence, the "girly-girls" make me feel inferior.
Don't get me wrong. I do have female friends. Women I admire and love. Women of great beauty. Not because of their visage, but because of their spirit and strength. Women are amazing creatures. They will reach out from within their own pain and comfort another. They will cry tears for you and with you. They can draw you out and hold you down. They will fight with tooth and claw and love with tender mercies. And, if you are patient and kind, they will show you their true beauty in all its splendor. Beauty queens, tomboys, plain Janes, and the girl-next-doors. All of them that I hold dear are forever exquisitely beautiful to me.
But those shoes at the beginning of my story? I knew in my gut that those shoes were not for me. They were nothing more than the passing curiosity of a young woman trying to feel her way. I didn't want them, but I did want to please my father, and I did want to try to fit in so I wouldn't stand out. Because that is what our society teaches us; to fit in as opposed to standing out. I wasn't of an age to question any of it and at that stage of life "standing out" can be quiet scary and uncomfortable.
But, that was exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to stand out, be my own self, not conform to social pressures that made absolutely no sense and really had no definitive value to me. Everything in me resisted conformity and even though I manage to fake it, for the most part, it's a constant struggle. It was and is an uncomfortable state for me. I don't think at the heart of it all that we are meant to conform.
Unfortunately, the non-conformers are given labels that are designed to set us apart from the conformers; to shame us into conforming. Just labels. I'm learning to feel them. Acknowledge them. Even embrace them. I will continue to try to be my most authentic self, in spite of, and in direct defiance to, the pressure to spend what may well be my only life conforming to an existence others believe is proper and necessary. Conformity is for society's comfort; not the individual's.
G. Jones 2018
RSS Feed