Head over Heels.

As much as I love a good long day in a pair of smart heels, and friends, I truly do, it is at moments like these that I am thankful that I am not required to type with my feet.

Yes, from thigh-top to toe-tip, the legs are experiencing what Diana Ross might have called sweet love hangover. Noticing these sensations on my first tentative, padded steps out of bed this morning, and being of a curious disposition, I did in fact conduct a little research on leg musculature. It pleased me greatly to learn that the longish muscle that endows the upper regions of the thigh with its superabundance of fleshy, curvy, callipygian appeal is actually known (to people who did not drink themselves rotten in their freshman year and made it into med school) as the Sartorius.

This pleases me in part because knowing a new thing is good, but more because Sartorius is just an errant spellcheck away from sartorial. If I have a sartorial signature, it is brazen display of Sartorius. Irony walks with me.

I have not witnessed many sartorial or Sartorius displays recently. Three inches of snow in Atlanta last Sunday melted well enough on Tuesday that overnight temperatures seriously below freezing turned our roads into treacherous rinks by Wednesday. On these rinks cars more or less behaved like 7 year olds playing hockey, flailing about in blind mass pursuit of a puck, careering here and there, spinning out and taking the innocent down with them in a knotted mass of shrieking earnest futility. I stayed out of the dangerous game entirely.

Chez Bellejambes was well provisioned, lots of food and drink, an ample cache of aloe infused bathroom rolls and plenty to read. We weathered well. Cabin fever had well and truly set in by weeks end though. Yesterday therefore, I was quite delighted to brazenly bestir myself, emerging from the ice cocoon to take pretty wing in Petra mode for the opening planning session of Southern Comfort Conference 2011.

I plan on haranguing you quite regularly here about your schedule and intentions for September. You really ought to start putting a shekel or two aside here and there. Maybe fight the odd shopping impulse too. If you do these things then the expense of coming to Atlanta and spending a few days or more in the company of so much smart, beautiful, liberated diversity will be more manageable. I implore you, if you have not been able to attend a conference that caters to the CD/TG set to do so. It is an expense though, and we do live in challenging times. I get that. If you are thusly challenged, let me encourage you to visit this page and note that there are scholarships available. You may be in a financial position to qualify for support. Don’t be shy. Don’t be proud. Don’t stay locked within yourself. ‘Nuff said on the matter. Head on down to Atlanta.

But back to heels now which is where I started after all. In the evening I happily pried my tootsies into the purple pump referred to in the post directly prior to this one. The morning wardrobe was perched upon newly acquired and long sought black suede (ok suede-ish) booties purloined from Macy’s for a very faint song. Too embarrassed to say the price really. Well that moment passed quickly enough. $24.00. The purchase pathology is kind of interesting to me though, and I want to share it with you out of a sense of care for your financial well being (which ties back neatly to the whole SCC attendance thing … see how I did that?).

This particular look has been in my gun sites for some time now. A versatile autumn / winter style, matches well with the legging / tunic look, skinny jeans, opaque tights / tailored skirt ensembles. In short, while not an absolute need, this is a shoe that has been more than a want. And on a half dozen sorties through a variety of shops, Nordstrom Rack, Ann Taylor, and DSW included I tried on and discarded stacks of paired suitors like a high maintenance Disney princess. This one pinched, that one swam. This one too tall, that one too low. Too round at the toe there, not sure about that platform. Thwarted time and again.

I kept at the objective though and, finally, finding them just before Christmas, was relieved greatly. As is my habit, I updated my purchase tracking spreadsheet and noticed with no small alarm that these were pair #10. I had unknowingly perched myself on an irretrievably steep slope.

A couple of years ago I polled readers to determine just how many pairs of shoes we possessed. The analysis kicked out a behavioral singularity that graphically displayed a gradual erosion of will between pairs # Five and 10. Past the 10 Threshold and basically one is left only with bilateral amputation, bunions, or bankruptcy as a brake against the desire for more and more shoes. There are zombies amongst us. Take a look around you next time you are shoe shopping. They cannot count how many shoes they own. Or rather, how many shoes they are owned by.

What havoc hath I wrought, what a fool am I. Even with the clear foreknowledge, with certain statistical indicators of a ruined future, my guard dropped, and I blithely stepped past the pointed-toe point of no return. I had barely made a mental note of # 9 only a week or so earlier, the lavish lace classic court shoe from Ann Taylor marked down from $180 to a mere $48, so blind to the charms I have become.

Enough heels. It is time for healing now. Time to mind myself and stop with the shoes for a while. You may think this a fools errand, and you might be right. I feel however that no honest exploration of ones fuller gender complexion is complete without battling against the pretty tide of shoe lust. Pictures at 11 of course. And 12. And beyond.

On a more serious note, a couple of words about the SCC planning session and evening social follow. I made some new friends, people with dazzling lives and minds, diverse interests, abundant charm and beauty. There was time as well with friends that I have met now 3, 5, or 8 times here and there. These acquaintances become more easy and meaningful each time too. The slow sedimentary process of trust building takes time, takes patience. Precious things with a commensurate payoff. A payoff available in the living, breathing company of people. People gotta meet.

There was a very pleasant surprise seeing about 60 people showing up at 9:00 am on a weekend to indicate willingness to help execute this big complex undertaking. And it was comforting to see Lexi, Blake, Lida, Christy and the rest of the board and committee chairs leading the charge. I encourage you to save the date: Sept 21 – 25. Start planning would you? And if you have figured out how to save yourself from the syren call of the shoe shop, drop a line would you?

Getting out the Vote effort

Some of you are old enough to remember all the way back to last August when I entered myself in a Victoria’s Secret $5,000 shopping spree sweepstakes. Some of you too were kind enough to throw a vote or 2 my way. Weirdly enough, with your help I managed to place #432 out of well over 10,000 contestants in the pretty online melee. Notes on just how close I came to smothering under the weight of a truckload of fully lined brassieres can be found here.

But don’t visit there just now. I am at it again, for a smaller prize, and with better odds I think.

My fashionable friend Miss Neira introduced me to Chictopia some time ago. Chictopia is a kind of Facebook meets Lookbook social network. Younger, prettier and more fashionable people than I congregate there, and so I created a profile and drop in from time to time to see what the style muse is whispering to those in the know.

Well, today I find out that Chictopia has a small Nine West giveaway on the go, and so I have elbowed my way into the “Search for a Stylish Sole” sweepstakes. One can never have too many shoes, and rare are the opportunities to get them for free.

I know, I know, the odds are slight, and stacked against me. But with that said, I came within a single misfiring neuron of adopting the name Dawn Quixote before embracing Petra Bellejambes as my Nom de Femme, so tilting against the windmills of reality is something that comes quite naturally to me.

Tilt with me now, won’t you my dear?

It should be an easy thing. Here, for example is a link. You will land up on a page that looks very much like the one pictured here. Just at the top right of the ensemble snapshot is some kind of votey-widgety-thingy that you should be able to click on without registering for anything. Unless you want to register and create a profile, which is a lovely way to defer taking the garbage out or tidying up the dinner mess for 5 minutes. And unless you think my look is ghastly. But in all honesty, I am just being greedy and grabby and am desirous of your vote. Do I need a platform to run on? OK, here it comes…

If elected I will institute sweeping reform to the Dry Cleaning and Valet Parking industries so that we, all of us, from sea to shining sea, will look more crisp while walking shorter distances into smart restaurants.

I hope that this is a change you can believe in. Again, link to the contest just here.

Momma needs a new pair of shoes. Thanks in advance for your sympathy and support.

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Update: As it happens, some sort of Chictopia registration is required in order to vote. Damn. One of you cheerful people did, and then voted for me, and for this I am grateful. I think I have a better chance if I just self-fund my shopping spree. Alas.

Again, thanks!

Travels on Interstate 8 ½

Shoes, dear friends, hold a quasi-sacred place in the minds of many women, women we know, admire and love. They have always held my attention too. The impact that a good pair of heels has on the stature of a woman, on the gait of her walk, on the shape of her calves, on the sounds in a room is considerable. All the world may indeed be a stage, but when I hear the click clack, I rather think of the world as a runway.

I have shoe obsessed friends. Friends who can talk shoes, and create from mere words perfect pictures of the jeweled and ribboned pumps of their dreams in tones that range from hushed and reverential to crystal shattering squeals. I have observed them flipping through fashion mag photo spreads, absorbing images obliquely and still paying polite attention to conversations whirling around them. And shop, sweet mercy, they shop, whole day-long marathons and lunch break sprints spent cradling, trying and now and then buying a new pair. A new pair somehow different from another pair or four already toppling out of boxes at home. Different in ways that a younger me could not perceive.

Long before my Petra-days, I had a girlfriend with superb fashion sense, an epic budget, terrific legs and chronic lateness. She would stand flummoxed in the foyer wanting, needing me to pick a winner from the two pairs she held dangling by the straps. Typically, I didn’t have the heart for the effort, being more concerned with whether our dinner reservation would be held.

- So, which ones do you think?
- You are gorgeous. We are late. One of each dammit, come on, can we get moving already?

I am happy to report she had a weak throwing arm.

From time to time, I might be in better spirits, and we might have a little time before being unfashionably late. Being a good sport, I might engage and offer an opinion.

- So which ones do you think?
- Both are nice, really, go with the ones on the left
- The spectator?
- Sure, if that’s what you call it
- I don’t think they are going to work
- The why did you take them out of the closet?
- They remind me of the ones I was thinking about wearing
- Then why the hell don’t you have them out?
- They kill my feet
- Why then for crying out loud did you buy them?
- Only because they are perfect! Here, I’ll show you, it won’t take a minute ...
- Please, god no, the ones on the right are fine, really
- Fine. Fine. Did you want me to look fine tonight? Fine is good enough for you?

Vive la difference, I was able to say to myself then. And here I am today with less difference to vive about.

Over the roughly two years that I have been “out” to myself as a Cross Dresser, I seem to have gradually acquired a better understanding of the passions that shoes can engender. I am slowly falling under the spell. The spell seems to me to be a two part compound: Having + Getting. Having consists of all the lovely things associated with choosing and wearing a perfect pair of shoes for the day or evening ahead. Getting is everything that happens before that. Shopping in short. I promise you an essay on the whole Having realm some time in the future. Today though, let us focus on the Getting, shall we?

To shop for shoes in the way that women do is one of those pampering luxuries exclusive to the fairer sex, and largely free of the lumbering, awkward, impatient presence of the less fair sex. Exclusively female experiences are a real draw to me. I truly enjoy knowing and feeling things that the next guy does not.

I enjoy as well the warm, sisterly welcome that has been extended my way on those days I have been out en femme, in the tall racks. On at least one occasion I “passed” fully and was simply assumed to be another women on the perched prowl for a new pair. On a couple of other occasions, my eyes met with a fellow shopper, and my smile was returned. I interpreted the look as meaning … “you might not be all woman, but you get shoes, and I get that, so bless your heart…”.

The unspoken Rules of the Rails seemed to reveal themselves, wordlessly. Adequate personal space is maintained between shoppers. If a woman is eyeing a particular pair, she is allowed first refusal. No reaching through sight lines. Honest unsolicited comments are welcomed, provided they are limited to, “yes”, “nice”, “love them”, and other such economical endearments. Never, ever, go negative with the commentary. Mirror space is sacred. No jostling, sighing or toe tapping. Very civilized.

Staff have been super helpful too. “Have a seat or take a look around and I will be back in a jiffy with the other half of the pair. Oh, I have another I think you will like too. Here is a shoe horn, and the mirror is free over there”. Service at its finest typically.

The few purchases I have made while in drab mode have gone without incident. Twice, memorably, the sales assistant reminded me to hang on to the receipt. “If they don’t feel good or just don’t look nice on you, you can bring them back. OK?”. Delivered with a smile. This is a clear indication to me that anyone in the business of selling shoes is no stranger to fellows with a certain penchant. I really do not believe that one can surprise or alarm staff in a shoe shop provided one is not wearing a belted trench coat and is sweating copiously. Thankfully, that person is not you or I.

With that said though. shopping for shoes while in guy mode is less of a joy for me. A man, clearly on his own, looking for women’s shoes is very evidently shopping for himself. You can gift a dress or lingerie. Shoes? Not so much. My unease is not driven by embarrassment: my blush thresholds are far too high for that. It is more that I feel vaguely at odds with the vibe. I feel as though I have farted in a swimming pool and somebody spotted the bubbles.

Women’s shoe shops feel to me like a refuge of sorts, a private space, members only, reserved for women, and rightly repellant of men. Out of respect for the that, I think I will do my best to keep things this way and do my shoe shopping only when out in full Petra mode.

So, as it stands, here in my Drabbatical months, I have more shoes than I need, and less than I want. Yes, the hook is in. I have a monkey on my back, and a strap round my ankle. And I feel fine. How about you? Commentary and chatter most welcomed.

Photos from talented designers you can find on CC''s always fashionable Couture Carrie.

On the other foot.

My wife has periodic outbursts of shoe madness. It would be fair to guess that she owns somewhere in the 50-60 range. Handsome, or pretty, as her stable is, she is a piker relative to some genetic women I know, for whom shoe shopping is a competitive sport. The compulsion to own many shoes is a calling, something that largely passeth the understanding of the normal guy.

The "normal" Voyages en Rose visitor however is exceptional, and perhaps might better understand how people can become mesmerized by the towering heel, the exposed arch, the binding strap and the vast array of shapes and shades that meet the eye when shoe shopping, or when simply admiring the passing, click-clacking feminine parade.

A little over a year ago, I polled readers on shoes. The purpose of the poll was to find out how large the Cross Dressers shoe collections were. The results are pictured at the right. At the time, I owned 4 or 5 pairs, which were perfectly adequate to my needs. This number put me comfortingly in the largest group of respondents (33%).

The next largest group of responses (22% of participants) indicated that they simply could not count how many shoes they owned, or rather, how many pairs they themselves were owned by. This got me to thinking about the similarities of shoes and cats. I have a friend from a former life who confessed to having “18 or 20” cats in the house he shares with his wife. I asked just how in the hell you get to having that large and weirdly uncertain number of cats.

“Not sure, but somewhere we hit a number where the next one just did not seem to make a damn bit of difference”.

My suspicion then was this: Like cats, there is an incremental shoe that puts the household on a practically unstoppable slope. I believe as well that they share a number. The high-heeled, pointy-toe number of no return, the “Tipping Point” number is Five.

I stayed perched on Five for a good long while mindful of its statistical significance. I picked up Pair Six just after emerging from last years Summer Drabbatical. I went through much of the Autumn without adding to the inventory, and in December, Mrs. Bellejambes made a gift of a nice pair of tan Mary Jane’s to me. I held steady at Seven for a good while. But there has been a nagging, persistent little voice calling to me of late.

I came home with Pair Eight a couple of days ago.

I am in the curious position of being capable of self-intervention, and yet a little drawn to the idea of letting things, in the lovely words of Leonard Cohen, slide in all directions.

I have made a few more forays around the shoe sections of shops lately. I left empty handed, certain that I had not seen the perfect thing, but clueless as to what the perfect thing was.

This represents a complete reversal of my guy-mode shopping. I never venture into a shop without a very complete vision of what is required. I do not shop speculatively. But for Petra mode, and of late specifically on the shoe front, a different model is emerging.

I slowly started to develop a sense of the perfect thing. The emerging vision was tied to a recently acquired skirt. The skirt is a grey/black animal print that with a nice purple detail. The skirt required a top, and the universe provided one in the form of a lush, deep purple silk blouse. The black pumps would be fine, perfect in fact, but only one perfect outcome out of many possible states of perfection. The perfect thing seemed over time to resolve in my mind as a purple suede pump.

And lo, there they were, at 70% off, in my size, nesting in a Macy’s clearance rack. Perfect. And then at the next shop, a belt to match. Again, perfect. And then I found myself looking at bags. Exponential possibilities pulled at me. At which point, the expense of letting things “slide in all directions” was becoming abundantly clear. I took a deep breath, and headed for the exit. Self intervention while I still had the wits, will and wallet in tact.

Let me now tender my sympathies to all who have trod upon this slope. I no longer have any mystification about how it can happen that all the closet space in a comfortable house slowly disappears. I have a clearer idea of how seemingly aimless browsing can periodically result in a great win, a feeling of at least temporary completion, of a mission that really has no complete state.

I think that this ever receding horizon, is something that women are more inclined to reach for than men are. Those of us who Cross Dress, or who identify as transgendered, can be easily drawn in to the same compelling game. These thoughts are an extension of my recent ramblings on the Cost of Cross Dressing. These thoughts have now put my in mind of a mathematical model that might explain some of it. I am going to take on the Math of Feminine Dressing in a post next week. After a little shopping sortie en femme today.

Happy Dressing, and everything else.

Stations of the Crossdresser – Shrine # 1 – Designer Shoe Warehouse

Ramona, my Fashion Consultant and Transformation Expert and I had a few stops planned for the day. And I felt the need to look smart and have some great advice along the way. Ramona is the proprietress of “Explore your Feminine Side” in Atlanta. Two things quickly here:

1. Having a GG with you while shopping is a real plus. Girls have a shopping sonar that I for one do not possess. This is a real time saver. A little easier to navigate fitting rooms too. Additionally, shopping with a friend makes the effort more sociable, and so much less furtive than crossdressers sometimes make it.
2. Looking your absolute best really helps free your mind for the tasks at hand. If you can, do seek professional help. It really makes a huge difference. Thanks Ramona!

Now, back to the shopping. The one chore I simply could not fall short on had to do with the shoes. When I mentioned this need, Ramona suggested that if we could not fill the order at the mall, that DSW would not fail us.

I had dressed for the occasion in a manner that no self-respecting, hyper-shopping, genetic girl would do. Stiletto boots, dressy sheers (Donna Karans thank you very much), the little black skirt at 5 inches above the knee and the leopard print trench coat. We had poor fortune at Lennox Mall. I am a girl on a budget, and the clearance racks had been pretty expertly gleaned. I made a couple of mercy purchases just to work on purse handling technique, but found nothing I could not live without. OK, the lace blouse is indispensible.

We were already 3 hours deep into a mall walk but the gams were still game, the purse not completely pilfered and my shoe closet still lamentably sparse. We decamped the covered parking comfort of Lennox for the more exposed and less upmarket confines of Buckhead Station, home of our nearest Designer Shoe Warehouse. The torrential rain stopped long enough for us to make the dash across the parking lot without my makeup melting away.

For those of you not familiar with this mega-church of stacked heels and pointy toes, imagine an enclosure larger than a football field filled with shoes. Upon entry I swear I perceived the curvature of the planet. I would not have been surprised to hear the alarming “beep beep beep” of airport people movers. Far in the distance, at the very horizon loomed the big clearance racks.

“Is that where we start Ramona?”
“Yes Petra, you learn well, your instincts are good”

Very nice smiles and a “welcome ladies” from 2 of the SA’s on the long walk back for the beginnings of my revenge. Revenge I say because I can barely find men’s shoes in my size, but 8 ½ represents a pretty rich seam in the realms of heels. 3 solid racks of all the odds and ends that made it through a season without finding a decent home. All the sad orphans. It simply breaks ones heart. I start now to understand the maternal feelings that most of my ex-girlfriends have about their shoes, and shoes they have yet to own.

It was relatively easy for me to harden my heart and not come home with armfuls for one reason, and a reason I will encourage all of you to borrow. I went shopping knowing exactly what I was after. In this case, the perfect black dress pump. True and shameful. Strappy sandals and boots I have. Wine shades and browns. Peep toes and patterns. But I have somehow missed on the one pair I would want to wear on the trip through the Pearly Gates. Never too late to atone though.

The clearance racks were not the sweet spot for the perfect pump. The classics never fall that far from grace. But the variety and value for the girl who has everything (except an entirely ruined credit rating) was spectacular. Anywhere from 30-70% off regular DSW prices which are ~ 40% of the department store prices on highly sought after designer labels. I timed myself – it took a full 25 minutes just to consider and walk away from everything in my size.

With resolve and a heavy heart we strolled back into the main pews of the cathedral. Our SA Stephanie was enlisted to do a little of the leg work, and set about it with charming determination. A quick note here on the staff. In broad daylight I think Helen Keller could clock me. Perhaps I am a little hard on myself, but you dear people know what I mean. In any event, my dressing and my gender are, it seems, on planet DSW a complete non-event. Just a gal looking for shoes. And a gal slowly disappearing behind the stacks of boxes served up by Stephanie in her desire to make me even happier.

Many contenders failed in the qualifying rounds owing to the wrong taper on the heel, or too round a toe. The "A Team" was assembled consisting of the BCBG, the Steve Madden and the Nine West and a death match ensued. “R” counseled patience.

“Walk them around the shop. Don’t just go home with the best looking one”.

This struck me as the “get to know them slowly before putting out” equivalent of shoe adoption. And sound advice too. A decent shoe store is one place you are certain to have floor height mirrors in abundance, and that is an opportunity not to be missed. Additionally, one can never get too much practice delicately lowering ones skirted butt onto a try-on stool. The society for the preservation of modesty would have been proud. I really don’t think I flashed anyone.

Ultimately, the Nine West won the pageant, and there is no saying why. Just an understanding between feet and shoe that words cannot adequately express. Either of the runners up will be able to fulfill the duties of my beautiful new matte finish 4” dress pumps should they be stolen.

These are perfect shoes. I am delighted. And I lament the years that we have not spent together. But I am born anew, possessed of the glowing zeal of the newly converted and ready to provide all the loving care that these darling shoes so richly deserve. I think I want them to have lots of siblings too. And I know where to find them.

I will end this minor pilgrimage by lighting a candle for this Shine of Shoes, our first of 14 Stations of the Crossdresser, the miraculous, the bountiful and all-forgiving Designer Shoe Warehouse. To find a shrine near you, just visit the store finder here.

And so to you dear friends … what Station should we genuflect at next time? I breathlessly await your suggestions…