Dressed to kill
I miss heels.
Back in Toronto, I was a fairly elegant dresser. I wore skirts and fitted 40s style jackets, and clicked about in cute little stiletto boots and mary janes. Ok, so, it's true that my work shoes were ugly enough to incite my friend Ben to refuse to be seen with me while I was wearing them, but going out in the evenings involved some degree of effort. The work shoes were about comfort.
This has all changed. Now I dress... forgive me for the dire political incorrectness but, well, I've made the comparison on more than one occasion that I dress like your stereotypical dyke lesbian: for example, yesterday I wore an untucked tuxedo shirt, boot cut jeans and clogs. I also have very short fingernails, wear very little make-up and haven't changed my earrings in... well, never.
Which is all very ironic, really, given the importance placed on traditional gender roles here. The only time I wear skirts and heels anymore is for job interviews (though that shall stop - I got the job this morning!), where I am aware that I should girlie up in order to not alienate any macho men who expect girls to look like Girls. Then I tart myself up and everyone from my doorman to my colleagues to random people on the street say, "ooooooo, look at YOU," and I primp and pose and blush.
And it's not that I don't want to look girly or feel sassy and feminine, either. Obviously not, given how much I enjoy dressing up for interviews. The decline of my sense of style actually was the result of an acceptance of footwear realities: Mexican men tend to be very tiny and Mexican streets tend to be very choppy and Mexican weather tends to be very sticky and hot, and so, alas, my beloved stiletto boots were packed away in storage when I moved here. Needing comfortable shoes that didn't make me tower over everyone (which I do anyway), I opted for Converse and clogs, which in turn meant no more little flippy skirts and sassy little whatnots. Now it's all about the practical pants that don't emphasize the practical shoes too much, and boring boring boring zzzzzzzzzz.
Bleh.
I miss taking to the sidewalk dressed to kill, feline and powerful. I miss the attitude that dressing to emphasize the curves and the legs gave me. But my poor, long-betrayed feet have gotten used to all this arch-supported pampering, and heels now are excruciating within a couple of hours. And Mexican men still tend to the petite side. And the sidewalks are not getting better.
I need a middle ground.
Or a tall boyfriend who can hold me up as I totter down the crags and crumbles.
I need SOMETHING. This is getting ridiculous.
Back in Toronto, I was a fairly elegant dresser. I wore skirts and fitted 40s style jackets, and clicked about in cute little stiletto boots and mary janes. Ok, so, it's true that my work shoes were ugly enough to incite my friend Ben to refuse to be seen with me while I was wearing them, but going out in the evenings involved some degree of effort. The work shoes were about comfort.
This has all changed. Now I dress... forgive me for the dire political incorrectness but, well, I've made the comparison on more than one occasion that I dress like your stereotypical dyke lesbian: for example, yesterday I wore an untucked tuxedo shirt, boot cut jeans and clogs. I also have very short fingernails, wear very little make-up and haven't changed my earrings in... well, never.
Which is all very ironic, really, given the importance placed on traditional gender roles here. The only time I wear skirts and heels anymore is for job interviews (though that shall stop - I got the job this morning!), where I am aware that I should girlie up in order to not alienate any macho men who expect girls to look like Girls. Then I tart myself up and everyone from my doorman to my colleagues to random people on the street say, "ooooooo, look at YOU," and I primp and pose and blush.
And it's not that I don't want to look girly or feel sassy and feminine, either. Obviously not, given how much I enjoy dressing up for interviews. The decline of my sense of style actually was the result of an acceptance of footwear realities: Mexican men tend to be very tiny and Mexican streets tend to be very choppy and Mexican weather tends to be very sticky and hot, and so, alas, my beloved stiletto boots were packed away in storage when I moved here. Needing comfortable shoes that didn't make me tower over everyone (which I do anyway), I opted for Converse and clogs, which in turn meant no more little flippy skirts and sassy little whatnots. Now it's all about the practical pants that don't emphasize the practical shoes too much, and boring boring boring zzzzzzzzzz.
Bleh.
I miss taking to the sidewalk dressed to kill, feline and powerful. I miss the attitude that dressing to emphasize the curves and the legs gave me. But my poor, long-betrayed feet have gotten used to all this arch-supported pampering, and heels now are excruciating within a couple of hours. And Mexican men still tend to the petite side. And the sidewalks are not getting better.
I need a middle ground.
Or a tall boyfriend who can hold me up as I totter down the crags and crumbles.
I need SOMETHING. This is getting ridiculous.
Comments
I'm just about off to TK Maxx to see if I can find something comfy but not too damn ugly for sight seeing in.
Viva high heels!
Ok, here we go.
Grrr!
How's that?
ST