Memoir Monday: How to Walk in Heels

I should mention first, that I am an overachiever. In case you missed that memo somewhere in this blog.
I was not your typical undergraduate student. I was married, first of all, and I was older than my fellow classmates by one to two years.
I decided to apply for a part time job teaching a college success course for incoming freshmen. This is the same course that I still teach today, as a staff member of the Alma mater.
I donned a pair of heels, a skirt, and a new sweater and made my way to the interview.
I should mention that I was also a little misplaced, as my husband worked for the university I attended. So I had the experience of being a student and a spouse of an employee—which pretty much meant I had the dirt on almost everyone in the university—staff, student, faculty, and janitor alike.
So when I stumbled past the token transgender student of the university as I walked to my interview, I had the advantage of not being surprised by the way the light shone simultaneously off his beard and glinted off his patent leather heels. I simply smiled and nodded in his direction as if to say, “I accept you, friend” and “are you as uncomfortable in your elastic band skirt as I am?”
I should now give you some background on this (wo)man. He moved to Ohio from Alaska with his wife after they sold their trucking company. At some point during this transition, he decided that his true identity was actually female and changed his name to Gail. His wife was supportive, and this arrangement seemed to work well for them.
The odd thing about Gail was that some days he was female and some days he was male, keeping his beard no matter the day. He also frequented the women’s restroom no matter the day, which gave many reason to pause.

Coincidentally, it was my husband who often had to tell Gail that he couldn’t use the women’s restroom. My husband is brushing against 300 pounds and is solidly built. Gail, however, was not entirely dwarfed by my husband. I would venture to say he was a solid 250 pounds, and his beard and receding hair line made him somewhat oppositional. Gail did not like being kicked out of the women’s restroom, and my husband did not like being put in the position to ask him to leave. It was a lose- lose for all involved.
As I strolled to the front of the building, nodding at Gail, I stumbled a bit in my too-tall heels. I laughed at myself, inviting Gail to jump in for a Walking-in-Heels-Lesson.

“Oh child, you have to step on the pad of your foot, like this”, Gail demonstrated walking on his tip toes in his own worn out heels, his cigarette swinging around as if it was an extension of his arm.

I mimicked him, blushing and enjoying myself. The spring breeze swept through and ruffled our skirts.

“Where are you headed?” Gail asked me, putting his cigarette out on the bottom of his heel. I admired how gracefully he pulled his leg up towards his body, noticing the inch thick bedding of hair that covered every inch of his skin.
I told him my destination and just like that, Gail became my escort to my interview.
I caught brief glances of his side profile as we walked. His wig was cheap, and wisps of it clung around his head, creating a bird’s nest effect. His beard had highlights of lighter brown and gold and they contrasted with his red lipstick, which was slightly smudged around the corners of his mouth. I wondered why his wife didn’t help him with makeup, but then realized she probably didn’t wear it herself.
“The thing about heels is they make us women.” Gail told me confidently, between deep, desperate breaths. We were barreling down the hall, two large people on two-inch stilts.

“If you work it right, you can own the world in a good pair of heels.” He leaned in to my shoulder as he spoke and I could smell a mixture of chew tobacco and mountain dew on his breath.

I spent most of our time together smiling and nodding, avoiding the strange looks we received from others in the hall. I saw a classmate at one point, and she responded to my flippant wave with wide owl-eyes. I felt her gaze as she turned and watched us make haste down the hall.

“It’s ok though”, he assured me, “my wife can’t walk in heels either. Some women just can’t get the hang of it”. He winked at me, his short lashes caked with mascara.

When we arrived at my destination Gail squeezed my shoulder and departed as quickly as he had bonded to me in front of the building.

“Good luck, and keep working on those heels!” He chided me, pointing to my feet. He lumbered to the women’s restroom, swinging the door open wide. With a brush and whip of his ankle-length floral skirt, he was gone.

My interview went well. I saw Gail in the halls repeatedly after that encounter (he was hard to miss), but he never spoke to me again. He had given me the wisdom I needed, I imagine he reasoned, and I was on my own to apply his advice and become the woman he saw within me.