Women in Comfortable Shoes

Remember the scene in Good Morning Vietnam (1987) when Robin Williams talked about women in comfortable shoes? I was thinking about it the other day when I was walking to lunch from my office. I had gotten behind a group of twenty-somethings also going to lunch. Two boys and a girl. The girl had on a tight-fitting business suit and these really high heeled shoes that made an awful clop, clop, clop sound on the sidewalk as she walked. She was trying so hard to keep up with the boys. It did not look easy. In fact, my feet hurt just watching her awkward stride. I started to reflect on my own footwear. I remember when I used to wear shoes that hurt just so I could impress others. By 2 o'clock my feet hurt so much that I would cringe if I had to walk very far around the office. But I wore them anyway because they "went with the outfit". However, now I consistently wear three pairs of shoes and they are all comfortable shoes. I asked myself that day on the sidewalk... when did I become the non-lesbian woman in comfortable shoes? And what does that say about me? After a long lunch with my feet up I determined, that as I have matured my tolerance for torturing myself has grown very thin. I am secure in my footwear choices. They don't define who I am or what I like. They make my feet happy and therefore, I am happy.

Not sure I want the tooth fairy to come this time.

He is so excited about his loose tooth. He rushes over to me so I can feel it move back and forth. I smile for him but my heart aches as I touch that little tooth and wobble it to and fro. He is my baby. This little loose tooth has rocked my soul beyond what I could have ever thought. In fact, I never even gave it a thought. He is growing every day; he is learning to read; he is riding a bike. These milestones came and went like rare spring weather in the middle of winter; I enjoyed them but knew we'd be right back to winter the next day. But you don't go back to winter after losing your tooth. You get a whole mouth full of permanent teeth and you no longer reach out to grab my hand as we walk together in the store or across the parking lot. We no longer sing silly songs at the top of our lungs or play for hours with balloons we brought home from the restaurant. You no longer draw me a picture showing me how much you love me. I no longer pick you up and toss you in the air.

I don't know if I expected my baby to not grow up. Or maybe I thought we'd have more time before he began to 'cross-over'. All I know is we can't go back now that there is a loose tooth. It's a matter of days now, the clock is ticking loudly. But maybe, just maybe, I can strike a deal with the tooth fairy so she doesn't come take him away. I'm just not ready.

The only thing that matters is the heart

I hear the music coming from the ballroom as I walk down the elegant hallways of the Ritz. My step quickens as I draw ever closer to my Sunday night heaven. The weariness of daily life, the frustrations and anxieties disappear once I step into the ballroom. I am surrounded by warmth and love. I see the smiling, happy people who come to this retreat every Sunday as well. And for four hours, we hold each other in our arms, moving rhythmically across the dance floor, turning, walking, wrapping our legs around each other, and sliding our feet from one side to the next. Daintily tapping our feet, holding each other close so that we can hear each other breathe while simultaneously releasing our embrace to where we can see each other’s smiling face. Every dance, every embrace brings us all together in our own space. Who you are, what your job is, where you live, where you went to school, what you drive is immaterial on the dance floor. The only thing that matters is the heart and connecting with your dance partner at the most basic human level, with love.

Riding along the waves of the beautiful music floating through the air of the Ritz is kindness and beauty. The ballroom’s elegance is matched with the elegance of the human spirit gathered to dance the Tango. Every couple on the dance floor is creating and re-creating their story with every side step and circle of their legs. He stands tall protecting the beautiful woman in his arms guiding her safely around the dance floor. She stands close, draping her arm across his neck and shoulder and placing her hand tenderly into his. She presses her face next to his and relaxes in his arms. He holds her close. For the next several minutes they listen to each other not through speech but through the embrace. He indicates where he’d like to go through his chest and she accepts that lead, moving how he intended. The music flows into their souls and they dance the dance that resides in their hearts. Every dance is unique never to be danced in the same way again no matter how many times they may dance together. The conversation is never stale.

As I finish my last dance and remain in his embrace long after the last note played, soaking up as much love to last me till the next Sunday, my heart and soul are filled with the beauty of life. I know how lucky I am to receive this love from others and how lucky I am to give it back. This love is in its purest form, there are no expectations, no baggage, no heart-ache… just pure love to give and to receive. I change back into my street shoes and put my coat on. And give one last hug and kiss to my dance partners as we wish each other a good week and commit to seeing each other again the next Sunday. I walk back down the hallway away from the ballroom and the anxieties, frustrations and weariness of daily life stay far away from me because my tango memories insulate me. And I begin the countdown till the next Sunday night tango.