Thursday, September 08, 2005

Walking Down a Hill in High Heels

I went through several outfits today, even though I'd chosen one last night. I knew what shirt I wanted to wear, but I had to find the perfect "oufit" to go with it. I finally did--a denim skirt. After all my classes and everything was over. Oh well...

And further news: My roommate's article in our school magazine was totally wicked-awesome! She's so cool, praise the Lord for her. Speaking of being a good roommate, I should probably straighten up my stuff, it's everywhere.

Back to my original train of thought, I apologize for that brief derailing.

Anyways, have you ever (ok boys, this is going to mess with your mind, so skip this paragraph if you don't feel up to dealing with the feminine psyche) noticed how khaki skirts can be totally comfy and perfect, but khaki pants never seem to be? For example--my new khaki pants are perfectly adorable, on the hanger (albeit a tad larger than I would prefer). On me they take on a shape I wouldn't wish on a dog I didn't like.

Continuing on, as I walked down a grassy hill between the main building and Lake Bob, which I make a practice of doing as often as possible instead of taking the sidewalk, a song suddenly popped into my head. "Walkin' down a hill in high heels..." that's all I could think of. Perhaps more will come to me later. The idea of the song is that we wear high heels to feel pretty (or to actually look pretty, for some people) and to give ourselves moral support. We feel that we can succeed when we wear high heels. Especially stilettos. But the moment we encounter a change of pace, a change of terrain, or anything unexpected we, or at least I, fall flat out. Or as in today's case, I'm walking perfectly straight, doing my little power walk/control stance thing, when all the sudden I misstep ever so slightly and have to perform a very undignified, unimpowered and uncontrolled chickendance to stay on my feet.

I was discussing this phenomenon with some friends over lunch and they all identified with me. (All girls, naturally.) We started tossing out ideas of clever cover-up lines to make ourselves feel better after a remarkably embarrassing instance of the unintentional chickendance. Things like, "Whoa! did you feel that tremor? I didn't know they had earthquakes in Virginia!" or "Whoo, the Spirit just really moved me!" or "Graceful moment--don't be jealous now!"

It's a good laugh, especially with the girls I was eating with.

Maybe you had to be there.

At any rate, I found it ironic that we girls work so hard to look good and feel good about ourselves; we stoop to such levels of artificiality and try so hard--and we can't even walk down a gentle slope without falling flat and making spectacular fools of ourselves. What's even more amazing is the fact that guys still fall in love with us in spite of our graceful moments, our failed powerwalk/control stances and our chickendances.

Isn't life ironic?


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