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Dangerous Shoes...October 2004

Year of Living Exuberantly...January 2005

Tree Time...March 2005

Dangerous Shoes by Deborah Griffin

Ever notice how your attitude can be transformed, not by what you wear—but by what you could wear? I learned this lesson through a friend who insisted on a night out, a winning ticket, and a shopping spree.

Heather and I work at each end of the San Francisco Bay Bridge. Our busy careers, mine as an art director and hers as a construction manager, make socializing a rare treat. Heather discovered a nearby location with that magic combination: food and convenience.
Not convenience food—but the southern food of our childhood. We’re talking hush puppies, fried catfish, okra, collard greens and sweet potatoes. Our evening was rowdy with Cajun music, fried food, and girl talk. At midnight, I unexpectedly held the winning door prize. When my waitress tried to talk me out of it, I realized I must have something special. I did. A gift certificate to Stepping Out: the Urban Shoe Spa.

On our way out, the manager said, ”You’re sure I can’t talk you out of that coupon?”
“Nope,” I replied, “I broke up with my boyfriend and I’ve just started dating again. Honey, I need these shoes.”
A male voice called out from behind us, “Sweetheart it is his loss.”
Heather and I blew kisses to my admirer and walked a few yards.
“Look Heather, here’s the store.”

We mashed our noses against the window, admired the display of outrageous shoes, then promised not to let so much time pass before we played again.

Fast forward to a foggy Thursday a month later. Client changes had pounded my logo design into a mere shadow of its creative self. Even though I’d tried to salvage it with desperate pleas of “fresh” edgy” and “innovative”, nothing had worked. I needed a break. A trip to The Urban Shoe Spa with my coupon would be just the thing.

The shop sported raspberry walls, gold-encrusted mirrors, fresh flowers and cushy sofas. Mirrored shelves featured bags large enough to hold a weekend’s worth of clothes or a small child, and clutches so small a credit card and lipstick would crowd them.
Then there were the dangerous shoes.
There were skid across the floor, grab any surface, fall on your ass shoes; take tiny baby steps with arms poised for flight shoes; and I can’t stop wincing long enough to smile shoes. There were pumps and slingbacks, slides and stilettos. The displays held high heeled flip flops and shoes crafted from linen leather and lace, from wood and rhinestone and lame. I admired a cute little Carmen Miranda wedgie with ice-skate thin cork soles and toes frothed with cherries and grapes. And the colors: chartreuse, fuchsia, mauve, crimson, and of course basic sexy black.

I’d entered a world designed for fashionistas with fetishes.

I tried on everything I could crumple my toes into. For half an hour I pointed and murmured with all the crass charm of Scarlett O’Hara on that glorious honeymoon trip with Rhett when he bought her everything her heart desired.

With straps and heels piled up around me, I sat staring at my feet. On one was a black number -- that I could actually walk in -- with a frivolous heel and toes that could spear a fish. On the other was a lemon stilleto sandal that made my calf look as if I actually went to the gym, but would limit walking to a one block radius.

Admiring my schizoid feet, I realized this was the footwear owned by a woman who draped elegantly over a barstool, ordered a dirty martini, then sipped it as she surveyed the room through half-closed eyes, slowly pulling olives off the toothpick with her teeth.
She was a woman who knew men named Felipe, Guillermo, Valentino, Malek, and Andre. Intimately. A femme fatale who ate decadant chocolate desserts without considering the calorie or carb count.

She drove small cars too fast while smoking dark foreign cigarettes or petit corona cigars. She ordered foie gras and champagne and called it dinner.
She had a French manicure—on her toes.
She’d maxed out numerous passports before they expired, could probably fly a plane and sail a boat. New York cabs squealed to a stop for her. She didn’t travel, she trekked. She’d ridden camels and elephants. She played tennis and polo, and was regularly invited to week-long house parties in places that started with “the”. The Hamptons, the Cotswolds, the Alps, the Riviera, the South of France.
She’d danced the salsa, the tango and even the flamenco that summer in Seville.
She was more pufferfish sushi, than fried catfish.
She didn’t win door prizes; she donated them.
This woman was not me.
I bought the arrogant black shoes.

My coupon barely paid the taxes, but I didn’t care. I was caught up in the moment, in the fantasy. After all, the style was fresh, edgy and innovative.

I left the Urban Shoe Spa and sauntered back toward the office. I knew this would be closest I’d come to a Carrie Bradshaw, Sex in the City, moment. I think the sun even glimmered through the fog for a brief second, highlighting my hair. Stopping at the coffee shop on the corner, I bought a dark shot of espresso, not a frappacino. I placed the tiny cup on the bistro table beside the glamorous shopping bag with the subtle elegant logo, slid on my sunglasses, and viewed the street through half closed eyes, practicing.

That night I discovered I couldn’t make any of my comfortable, functional wardrobe go with the wicked witch toes. I gave up and padded off barefoot to make a grilled cheese sandwich and call Heather to tell her about my frivolous frolics with footwear.

But I know, at the top of my closet in a sleek gray box, shoehorns in place, those shoes and the dangerous adventures they represent await me.

Because, you see, sometimes the journey is not about how far you walk, but how good you look getting there. When that moment arrives for me, I’ll have the perfect shoes to wear.

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YEAR OF LIVING EXUBERANTLY by Deborah Griffin

There they were. The same old resolutions I’d been listing, but not achieving, for the last seven years: lose a few pounds, improve my education, and put away some cash for my retirement. I scratched thick black lines through each item and started over.
In big letters I printed:

1. Wear more hats,
2. Show more cleavage
3. Travel
And…
4. Seduce three new men

I ripped the list from my journal and tacked it on my refrigerator with a Pizza Delivery magnet. This new list looked like a lot more fun.

From the top: wear more hats. More? Who wears hats since Jackie O abandoned the pillbox? Remarkably, the search for opportunities to adorn my head led me into new activities. I attended a baseball game in a snappy Giants cap, bought a sleek new helmet for bike rides, and a seductive wide-brim for loitering at the beach. Then, I wandered into a thrift shop and hit pay dirt: a vintage cloche for a jazzy Gatsby-era tea and a Stetson for Western theme night at the Eagles Club. I’m still scouting milieus for the fedora, the beret, and the bonnet. The crowning glory, a dramatic feathered number, I wore to the Renaissance Faire with my corseted bodice. A two-for-one: hat and cleavage.

Speaking of, writing “show more cleavage” on a list was a lot easier than actually pulling it off. After all, I’m a middle aged brunette sporting a few extra pounds in a media-saturated world of sexy blondes spilling out of beer commercials and Victoria’s Secret ad campaigns. But I was up to the challenge, especially since it required a shopping spree. I invested in plunging vee necks, sexy scoops, spaghetti straps and delicious lingerie to enhance them. The wardrobe change gave mundane encounters with the postman, the dry cleaners and the bag boy at Safeway a flirty edge. The only downside was a slight alienation of wives and girlfriends. So I scaled back and selected my décolleté occasions with care; some local venues, more in foreign locales, all with interesting results.

I dumped a year’s worth of retirement-targeted cash into the travel fund. By planes, trains, and automobiles, I logged adventures. From photographing mountains in Shasta, Seattle, and Colorado to roaming museums and galleries in L.A. and Santa Fe, I racked up the miles. I even drove to my birthplace in Mulberry, Arkansas returning to California via famed Route 66. Motoring west over long distances I belted out chick songs at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down, squeezing joy out of each mile. By years end, just like Dorothy of Oz fame, I was content to nestle my tush into my favorite chair by the home fire.

Okay, take a really deep breath, next item: Seduce three new men. Seduction requires proximity, and since the breakup of my long-term relationship there had been a dearth of men in my life. This objective could be a bit of a challenge. Then an old friend telephoned.

Ever have one of those off-limits kind of guys in your life—a brother of a friend, or a buddy of your husband, a guy who you always kind of wondered about. You flirt a little, they flirt back, but everyone is too honorable to take it any further. By some whim of fate, mystical alignment of the stars, or karmic convergence, the guy, let’s call him Dave since that’s not his name, called to catch up. When he discovered I was “not involved” with his buddy anymore, he invited me to his home in the mountains for a “just friends” weekend. With my List lurking at the back of my mind, I headed north. A thunderstorm came rolling in and took out the electricity. We lit a fire, some candles and drank enough wine for him to admit he’d fallen in love with me the day, ten years before, that I’d walked into his house on his buddy (my ex’s) arm. Well…

The next morning we stood on his porch arm in arm watching the rain drip from the roof and realized 500 miles and a history were too much to overcome. But I drove away with a satisfied smile and a great big check on my List. One down.

Number Two appeared through the tried-and-true method: two people complaining of their lonely nights to a third. Heather heard the whines, sprouted Cupid’s wings, and gave out emails to myself and Harry (name changed to protect the guilty). It was the beginning of summer and we both anticipated a bit of a summer fling. Together, we enjoyed ballgames, and concerts, beach parties and sunset ferry rides, Seattle and Santa Cruz. Unfortunately, his ex-wife wasn’t quite as ex as first indicated and summer ended.

With four months to find Number Three, I could be selective. I don’t go to bars, my church attendance is irregular at best, and my friend’s friends were mostly married. What’s left? The Internet. The exploits that ensued are a whole other essay. Some contenders fell out early. The ability to spell and punctuate as well as craft an email of charm and wit, including at least one question about my interests, scored a coffee. Over the next couple of months, I endured bios and bravado over steak and sushi. Finally, a potential lover surfaced. I’ll call him Bill, since that is his name. He had an art collection, a sense of humor, and a desire for a monogamous girlfriend. Good thing I’d hit my goal.

I feel lucky. I made it through the bout of dating and mating with a minimum of emotional “oowies” plus some sweet encounters that elicit secret smiles at odd moments.

Bonus: I eschewed diets and inner dialogues about body image and lost 10 lbs without even trying and this 12 month joyride was quite an education. As to retirement, fifty years from now, you can bet I’ll regale the rest of the Blue Hairs with the edited (or unedited) versions of these escapades over Scrabble and Jell-O at Happy Valley.

Was it worth it? You bet. I relished adventures that transformed my journal entries from a mournful whine to the scintillating confessions of a passionate interesting life. In the distant future, if someone discovers this year’s well-worn journal, it will not be a yawn of a read. At least, that’s what I like to think.

So what’s my advice to anyone considering goals for the upcoming year? If you want to experience an exuberant fabulous year—start with a fabulous list!

Deborah Griffin is a writer and artist living in Northern California where she begins each year with a list worth living.

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TREE TIME April 2005
by Deborah Griffin

I collect trees. Well, tree memories, actually. I photograph them, I draw them, and sometimes I just sit under them. Or in them. The species doesn’t matter. I've communed with conifers, wept beneath willows, sung and sighed with sycamores and cypress. For me, messages and magic arrive via bark and boughs.

I’m not talking storybook or Hollywood magic. I’ve never had apples aimed at my backside as I fled from my own wicked witches, or been thumped by Potter-esque Whomping Willows. Neither have I been carried about, hobbit-like in the branches of trees, although having my own personal “Treebeard” might be kinda cool. Tree magic for me is more about the alchemy of de-stressing and decisionmaking and the metamorphosis they create.
Once, years ago, I climbed into a big bay to survey the chaos of my life. Straddling a bough, its girth as fat as a Shetland pony, I realized I didn’t really care that the store I managed was in the top five on the West Coast or that chartreuse and salmon were the hot new colors for spring. Leaning against the massive trunk, I allowed myself to dream about what I’d really love to do for the next week, month, year, decade. The tree seemed to breathe with me as a breeze rearranged the leaves and shifted new patterns over my skin. The next day I gave notice, dropping my retail management career like autumn leaves to begin cultivating a budding interest in graphic design. 

A decade later, my marriage had become a gray shadow of its former robust self. Rather than consult the oracle, the tarot, or heaven forbid, my family, I ventured alone into the forest. At the edge of my camp circle stood an amazing ponderosa pine. A trauma—probably a lightning strike—had left its major trunk an atrophied spire. Another branch had grown up beside it, creating a shape like a tuning fork. I pulled out my sketchbook and drew the junction of the tree where it had morphed into the fecund shape of a woman’s body. From that point the compensatory branch, lush with new growth, lunged toward the sky.

Could I let go of conventional expectations and became, neither my Mother’s nor my husband's version of a wife, but my own woman? I didn't have an “I am woman, watch me roar” moment, but more a compelling curiosity to grow in a new direction, using my tree as a thriving example. I dissolved my marriage and, eventually, I flourished. 

Recently, I came to the conclusion I'd lost my equilibrium. In the last week, I'd tried to pop open my house door with my car alarm, gotten in the shower still wearing my socks, and eaten from the same Chinese takeout for three days. Too many late nights and lunches at my desk left me with a stiff neck, crumbs in my keyboard, and a night security guard in my office tower that knew me by name.

On Saturday, I set out to find a new tree. Driving the coastal hills, I rounded a curve in the road and there it was—a spreading valley oak that had somehow survived despite the creep of subdivisions, vineyards and dairy barns. Its trunk grew up about fifteen feet then leaned and stretched far out over the verdant pasture. The branches extended at least fifty feet and were naturally pruned in one direction by the unrelenting wind of the north coast.

I had to photograph the tree and climbed out of my car for a better angle. In my viewfinder, I framed the behemoth oak. The force of the gale plastered my clothes against my body and straightened my curls into stinging strands that lashed my cheeks and obscured the lens. My hair, my skirt, even the way I was leaning mirrored the tree that endured this scouring onslaught every day.

So what was this metaphor from Mother Nature going to teach me? At times you grow where you are and in the direction of the prevailing wind? Or perhaps that the shifts can be smaller and without drama? Crook toward the light here, scoot a root over there, send a tendril out to the left and after years—you become a work of art.

Reviewing the photo, I realized this tree couldn’t remain upright without a substantial counterbalance. I’m sure a cutaway would reveal a mirror image of the dramatic branches. The hidden root system would be immense, a complex system of roots and rootlets diving deep beneath the soil, clawing in the opposite direction to withstand the wind. The gift of the Oak was a new understanding and appreciation of family and friends, as well as my own deep inner resources, which provide for me a similar grounding. I took away a new awareness of the direction my life is growing, and made a promise to take time to nurture myself more.

I began with yoga. My teacher Nancy began our session with a calming voice.
"Just stand. Find the four points of balance on the bottom of each foot. Hold up your toes, and find the point behind the big toe, behind the little toe and on each side of your heels."

Easy for her to say, I hadn’t had this much trouble standing upright since I was a toddler. I lifted my toes and held them apart. I’d polished my toenails, and had to dash for the telephone without smearing them, enough times to have this move down.

I placed my toes on the floor one at a time and stood tall. I felt myself begin to settle and sort, becoming exquisitely aware of the inside of thighs, sacrum, pelvis, spine, shoulders and neck. Microscopic shifts, yet at last I felt perfect alignment. My breath relaxed into a gentle rhythm and I held mountain pose. Solid. 
Then Nancy told us to shift all our balance on to the left leg and draw up the right leg into tree pose. 

Tree? I was a windmill, a whirling dervish. I barely missed taking down Jim on my left and staggering into Erica on my right. I put both feet on the floor and exhaled deeply. I could do this. I sent out tendrils of intention, making choices rooted in my values, reaching up for my goals. Completely present in this lovely room of polished floors, lilies, and temple bells, I stood barefoot on my yoga mat. I centered, inhaled, and raised my foot. 

Today I’m not looking for guidance from trees.
In this moment, I am a tree. 

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