Flat

There are moments when I realise I’m getting older, and I feel OK about it. Pertinent examples:
• Spice Girls nostalgia;
• Looking forward to staying in on Friday nights, not because I’m looking forward to getting my nerd on with Ulrich Beck (look him up), but because I’m going to have a bath, re-read a particularly beloved book (Zadie Smith’s On Beauty, read it), pop a Restavit and head to bed by 11pm;
• Rocking clothes I have owned for almost a decade;
• Chats with friends who are long-standing enough to remember ALL TWENTY of my uni hairdos, but kind enough to forget a few; and;
• Driving a brand new grown up car.

There are, however, moments when I realise I’m getting older, and I most certainly do not feel OK about it. Pertinent examples:
• The Wrinkle of Incredulity, mentioned eighteen months ago on this blog, has not gone away. Rather, it has increased, because numpties are always with us and there will always be a daily something or someone that makes me pull my incredulous face;
• ‘She’s So High’ by Tal Bachman, the song my first ever boyfriend declared to be my song (his taste in love songs was almost as good as his taste in women), is played late at night on Mix 106.3, Canberra’s Golden Oldies station;
• I can wear dresses I wore when I was eighteen, but, in doing so, my breasts are forced to occupy a totally different postcode than they usually do;
• I have superannuation in seven different accounts, which need consolidation; and;
• I can no longer wear high heels every day.

It’s this last realisatory moment that’s been making me feel a little flat, literally and metaphorically.

It all started the other week, when I was shaving my legs in the bath (I’m. Just. So. Classy. It. Hurts). As I extended my right leg to remove the last outcrops of winter undergrowth from the back of my calves, I heard an odd ripping noise. I bent my knee, extended; there was that noise again, the noise like ripping wet cardboard. As I wasn’t in any pain, I decided it was just one of those Body Things that will resolve on its own.

Two days later, however, I noticed the noise as I descended the stairs in my building, and, again, while there was no pain, I know enough of my family’s medical history to know that You Don’t Mess Around With Knees. In my family, knees are as serious as abandoned packages in airports - serious enough to make me take the advice my friendly neighbourhood chiropractor has been gently giving for years; abandon the high heels in favour of flats.

It’s hard, forcing myself to reach for the lower options as I get dressed in the morning. Surprisingly, it isn’t the height I miss – I’m five nine in my stocking feet and already feel myself too tall – but the enhancement to the shape of my legs that a heel, even a little one, gives.

A gym instructor once told me that heels, when worn consistently, activate different muscles in your leg than normal shoes. While activating these muscles stuffs up a whole lot of other musculoskeletal processes, repeated wear will give you that classic curve from ankle to calf. In other words, heels give you killer legs, when you are wearing them and when you take them off.

While I wouldn’t go so far as to say my legs are killer without heels on, I do know that I feel my legs look better, more curved, more graceful, in heels. The drunken old men who hang around the Melbourne and Sydney buildings, at very least, make their appreciation plain (or that could just be the metho talking, I can’t be sure).

Being a little stumpier in the leg department, though, is something I can – grudgingly - accept in return for what I hope will be a longer period of my life where I can stroll through my favourite cities, run for rudely early buses, and climb the stairs to my apartment. One day, when I own a penthouse with a rooftop garden and sunken pool area, being able to climb stairs will be a most handy thing.

Or, hope against hope, some clever lady will invent an innersole for ballet flats that activates the same muscles as a pair of five inch stilettos, building that graceful curve of muscle without buggering knees and backs.

A girl can, and does, dream.

A Long, Tall Drink of Water

Because this is an anonymous blog, and I don’t post pictures of myself, there are several things about my appearance you may not know. One of which is that I’m rather tall. About 5’9, in old money. After reading in the SMH’s Good Weekend magazine that the ideal height men nominated for a woman was 163cm, I got to thinking about my height.

I’ve often whished myself shorter. When I was in school, being shorter would have meant sitting with the girls rather than standing with the boys in school photographs. When I began college and uni, being shorter would have meant that I could have gone unnoticed a little more in class, rather than sticking out like a very tall sore thumb. Being shorter would mean that off the rack dresses and skirts would be the right length at the hemline and arms. Being shorter would mean that I would be substantially less clumsy – less distance for wires to get crossed between my brain and my feet. It would also mean that I would be ‘cute’, rather than ‘handsome’, that people would not look up to me (literally), and that I could get away with some more ‘out there’ clothes and make up without worrying that I looked like a female impersonator.

On the other hand…

Being tall means I can reach the high shelves in my wardrobe without a stepladder. Being tall means that I can wear patterned tights because of the extra yardage in the leg department. Being tall makes it hard for me to be overlooked in a meeting, seminar, or tutorial, and it’s nice to have to force myself to think of not-too-stupid things to contribute. Being tall, so I’ve been told, gives a person a natural air of authority, and, as such I’m capable of bringing my classes into line by standing up when I talk to them (freakily, this does work). Being tall means that I can wear big hats without looking like an elf. Being tall means that I walk fast – and given room allocations at uni this semester, I cannot be grateful enough for my super fast walking capabilities, even if it is a clumsy trot rather than an elegant stride.

So, on balance, whilst 163cm might be the ideal height for the average woman, 175cm might just be the ideal height for me.