feminine graces (or, I do not walk like a duck.)

I do not walk like a duck. Julia Roberts walks like a duck. I do not.

I was reflecting on this while walking back from the bathroom during work today. Our new office is on the fourth floor of an outdoor building. The walkways, while carpeted, are little more than covered balconies along which offices present their doors like very nice, apologetic motel rooms. The corridor that leads back from the restroom heads towards a plate glass window, which reflects the person walking back from the loo.

I noted my reflection in the mirror.

I noted I looked like a slob.

I noted I did not care.

This led me to other thoughts. Namely, that women today do not know how to walk in high heels, but persist on wearing them anyway. It is a bizarrely lost skill. All complaints about sexism aside -- I mean, shit. If you're wearing heels, you're wearing them because you want to be feminine, so suck it up -- what's the point of wearing shoes that (ostensibly) are meant to make you look graceful and feminine, only to waddle like a pregnant baboon in the process of squirting out her young? I emphasize waddle. One's reflection in the mirror should not rock from side to side as though buffeted by an indecisive wind. Sway, maybe. Swish, certainly. Rock, never.

High heels are sexy if you walk in a straight line. One foot in front of the other. Not one foot ahead and slightly to the side, but literally, in a straight line. If you stretch a piece of string in a straight line and walk down it, your heels and toes should land with each step on that line. With most women who wear heels, you could ink their feet, have them walk down a sidewalk, then ride a fat-tired motorcycle down the center without ever having to adjust your steering to avoid touching the ink. On either side. Why do women wear clothes to look nice and then chug around like they're dangling a disco ball between their thighs? Okay. A small disco ball, but still. You are not hosting the '70s between your legs, ladies.

I'm just saying.

It's weird.

I returned from Texas just in time to dump my dirty laundry, pick up heels, a dress, and my husband, then hop back into the car to head to Reno for a wedding.

I am uncomfortable with weddings as a rule. I'm never quite sure how to act or how to look; growing up, etiquette was something that happened in other places, to other people. (My mother's social admonitions were straightforward and simple. Eat with your mouth closed. Don't interrupt. Keep your feet on the floor. Take your elbows off the table. Don't encourage your sister to jump off the house and please stop putting your father's neckties on dead moles.) I made it to prom by the breadth of a hair, and that only because Tara's fantastic mother took me under her wing.

My mother's reaction was along the lines of, "What's a prom?"

My wedding was more of an excuse to get all my friends together in one place and feed them. We dispensed with most of the wedding traditions because -- to be honest, I had no idea what they were. The event was held together by fantastic vendors and by Tara again, my irritatingly beautiful matron-of-honor, who picked up where her mother left off in my ongoing social shepherding. When I reach my 80s, I fully expect her daughter to continue the process. "This is Social Security. Repeat after me. 'Social Security.' Put the hearing aid back in your ear, Aunt Yuhri. That is not a lozenge."

Anyway, the wedding. It was gorgeous. I spent all of half a minute wondering if I had dressed appropriately, and then forgot all about it. The bride was beautiful, the groom was adorable, and all in all it was a charming and fun occasion. Kimberly is much like Tara, in that she has an innate sense of aesthetics that makes -- well, me, hi, proud owner of an orange kimono -- envious, in the same way Leonardo da Vinci makes me envious. I could do that! I think, if I were someone completely other than who I am.

"Have you noticed," I mentioned to the Guy halfway through the reception, "how an unnerving number of people in this room are really good looking?"

The Guy has been married two years now. He is wise. "Really?" he said. "I hadn't noticed."

"The women," I hissed. "The guys are good-looking too, but the women."

The Guy has been married two years now. He is not so wise as he will be when he has been married five years. "I'm friends with hot chicks," he said smugly. "It used to be great when I was single. I'd get into all sorts of parties because I was friends with them. Sweet Pipes, Kimberly, Je--"

I looked at him. He stopped naming names. He patted me anxiously on the back. "Of course," he added hopefully, "now that I'm married it doesn't matter anymore."

Nice save. Great save. Take notes, Tommy. They will help you in your future married life.

I'm not entirely sure how they'll help.

Anyway.

Yeah.

Congratulations, you two! Call us you when you get back!