Never Walked In High Heels

“He who gives up freedom for safety deserves neither.” ~Ben Franklin

One of my favorite things about living where I do is that I get to see men who have yet to give up their sense of adventure. Some of them have passed forty and still live on boats with no wives or children. Their homes sometimes seem like an adult version of a tree house as I pass them. They stick their heads out and greet me, asking if I need help with anything today. These are the friends I call when I am stuck in central London with a dead battery or suddenly find myself in a sticky situation. They are unshaven, unabashed, and all together untamed.

In the circles I was raised, men like this are pretty much nonexistent. The males we have are like old circus bears who perform a few ticks on command, but are old and have been declawed. The bars placed on the circus cages are to give a feeling that the beast is unsafe despite how aged he actually is. Although I have my theories, I’m not sure whose ‘fault’ it actually is. What I am sure of is that these men, somehow or another, have entered into a safe world of suits and status quos where they often married before they knew who they were, to avoid some unknown darkness. They have become tamed because the world around them requires it. All opportunity for adventure disappears when people demand that men play it ‘safe.’

My point is not that we should encourage men to be reckless or even brutish. Real men possess self control as much as they do power. But what I am emphasizing is that on insisting on safe lives, perfect homes, and taming passion, we trade away our freedoms. And in doing so, we (for lack of a better word) castrate our men. Then we wonder ‘where have all the men gone?’

The men around here are still often feral even on their best behavior. Most of them are far from having a stable life, but by my count I don’t expect them to. In keeping their company, they don’t expect me to stay in my ‘place’ either. They don’t comment about how I shouldn’t be out in inaccessible places or calling them when I need to get out during a snow storm. They are the first to offer help but the last to enforce limits. I know that each of us are fully functional individuals who treasure our freedom. Because we know we are each independent, there is a community where each of us is valued. Watching them be the fullest men they can be, raising sails and rebuilding their boats with calloused hands and amazing stamina, helps me to realize what it means to be a better woman than I thought I could be.

So I’m at a bar in London. It’s one of those weird meetings where it might be considered a first date or it might be just a friend get together. I’m watching for signs very carefully. We sit down. We order. Then he immediately rips into my country, starts shredding issues of the day, utterly destroying certain individuals, and I disagree with him 100%. Within exactly 7 minutes of taking our seats he is permanently off my list of potential partners.

It’s a massive open female pitfall that women everywhere are facing—well, women with open minds. The problem is not that he disagrees with my opinions; my best friends and I disagree all the time—that keeps the relationship interesting. No, the problem is that I have now sat here for some time and he doesn’t even ask my opinion. He just assumes that I agree with him, and with that given, he can make the boldest, most blatant statements without any encouragement from me.

It’s now 20 minutes and I think I’ve spoken a total of 15 seconds. This is not a good way to start an evening, let alone a potential romantic relationship.

Here’s something that guys need to understand. Perhaps it is only this way in my little mind, but it is important nonetheless. When you offer to go out on a date with me, you have centuries full of chauvinist pigs dragging your tail backwards. I just think of all the women over the centuries and generations who got married only to discover that her opinion didn’t matter to their spouses. The polite disagreements eventually turned to sirens when she learned after 15 or 20 years that what she thought didn’t matter. I’m not saying that every long-term relationship ends up like this, but several of them did and still do, and I don’t want to fall victim to that. So I am going to watch you on first dates, and on subsequent outings to see if you do care about my opinion and if you can tolerate disagreements. I know that in any long-term relationship people change, but each person must feel like they married the better individual. Without even asking if I have an opinion, you’ve proven to me that I don’t matter.

Sadly, I think it’s becoming more and more common on the dating field. Especially with the political expectations being what they are, everyone suddenly has an opinion, and the dinner table has become and appropriate place to spout it out. Maybe it’s because I’m often slow to speak, but in the past 2 months I’ve ruled out 5 guys that I could have liked because they never asked me what I thought. Are you interested in yourself or me? I can handle disagreement—that actually means more to me than you agreeing with me all the time. I can’t be comfortable though, in a relationship where there needs to be 100% assumed agreement—where I’m always walking on eggshells, and where I’m not free to be myself. I actually feel more paralyzed when I regularly agree with you than I do when we go our separate ways and can each then turn to the other at the end of the evening and say, you’re nuts but I love you for it.

The evening admittedly lasted longer than I should have let it. He is a good friend, and I wanted to catch up with his life, not on the British opinion of Washington politics. I kept the conversation going hoping to get the former, but all I got was the latter. At the end of the night, we pushed in our chairs and agreed to meet with a group of friends in the following week. He is a great companion, followed by dear inspiration and creative spirit, when he isn’t spouting off politically, and I keep him around for those qualities. Not because I agree with him, or he agrees with me. All I could tell is that for a long-term romantic relationship, this wasn’t going to work. As we came to the door we noted that it was raining outside. He offered me his coat, and I told him “No thank you, I always carry and umbrella in my handbag.”

Two days later I had managed to scrape myself off the bathroom floor and get some work done, but as soon as my roommate left I collasped into a mess. Finally I took the dress out of my closet and shoved it fiercely into the plastic bag it came in.

I began to think I was completely out of line for asking my friend to dress in formal wear. My judgment waved between being furious and opening the phone to call him back.

“I think I may have my first broken heart,” I told a friend while explaining the situation. She wanted to know who the seventh rejection came from and I told her.

“Well, of course he refused to wear a tuxedo, he’s proper British isn’t he? Look, it’s got nothing to do with you, that’s the first thing you need to get through your head. I promise, it isn’t because you’re disabled or any stupid reason. Well, if you ask me it is a stupid reason but that’s just because he’s English.” My friend who was, of course half French, did her best to make a madwoman see reason. For some of our friends, wearing a tuxedo can be a declaration of class rather than the starting point for an evening out.

In England, the fairy tales require more magic. For many, putting on a tux is an action for men of the upper classes, never something for an average Joe to put on. And to do so, for some, is to be seen as not only attempting to rise above your station, but also commit treason towards the class you came from. I never imagined it was a bold statement for certain friends to even consider going to a black tie affair let alone dress for it. So many farm girls all across America went to prom, even if it meant buying a dress at a Goodwill store. And they were still puffy and pink, the stuff it took to become a princess for one night. Immediately I wondered if little girls played dress up there. Did they get to have tea parties with other princesses, or were the only items in their play boxes indicative of  more practical lifetime occupations?

That night I called my friend Ché. His parents named him after Ché Guevera and his politics became even more proletariat from there. If anyone hated the bourgeoisie uniform of the tuxedo it would be him. I hoped he could make me more sympathetic towards the toiling masses.

“If someone asked you to a black tie event, would you be willing to wear a tux?”

“They’re a little itchy, but sure, of course I would.” This was not the answer I was expecting from a man named Ché.

“You would?”

“It’d be rude not to meet the dress code. Why? Where are we going that we need to get so dressed up for?”

“Would you go with me to-“

“Absolutely,” he said before I could finish the question.

It took a man who loathed the class system and economic inequality to remain unrestricted by it. Seven days later he was waiting for me as I got off the train in the red evening gown, his dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and his tux suiting him perfectly. Putting aside his politics to help me for an evening made him more of a gentleman than I ever dreamed of having. On our way inside I could not help but smile. Sometimes, if you put a black tie on a red commie he can behave with more class than any blue blood.

The preceding is an essay from Athena’s new book The Perfect Sole due out this winter.

Meanwhile my escort options were quickly waning.

With ten days to go I was calling every male between the ages of eighteen and forty five that I knew in between kicking myself for ever getting my hopes up about a date. I don’t know why, but the promises a young woman makes to herself are often the most deadening and unhealthy resolutions ever created. And in those moments of asking every conceivable man I knew out on a date, I promised myself that I would never again be taken in such foolishly romantic ideas of silk gowns and wonderful evenings again. It was obviously not where I belonged.

The problem was not actually me, or so I found. I would call up a friend and explain the situation and he would be eager to go. Then I would mention the dress code and everything would begin to fall apart.

“But don’t worry, the company is so eager for me to go escorted that they are willing to pay for a tuxedo rental.”

“A tux?”

“Yeah, so you get a first class dinner and you won’t have to pay a thing.”

“But I have to wear a tux?”

And thus the conversation turned into him having to check his calendar or him suddenly remembering an appointment. The seventh guy finally was openly resentful about it.

“I’ll go, but I’m wearing a suit. Don’t expect me to show up in a tux.”

“I’m going to be in an evening gown, so you’ll look absurd in a suit.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m not wearing one of those.”

A few hours after the conversation I called him back up, leaving a firm but nerve wracking voicemail.

“Hi, its me. I’ve been thinking about it and, well, if you don’t want to wear a tux… I think I’d rather go with someone who respects me enough to wear one when it says ‘black tie only.’ I really don’t want to bring the only guy not up to dress code. So I don’t know who I’ll go with but… yeah, thanks for the offer.”

And then went in to my  tiled bathroom and collapsed, heaving until I could no longer recognize the sounds of my own cries.

I couldn’t believe it. Was I so ineligible for an evening out that I couldn’t find a single one of my male friends to eat a dinner with me which was priced above their last paycheck? Was there some sort of price to pay for spending a seemingly free evening with me? Was I just not in anyone’s league? Insecurities about me, my romantic history, and future prospects kept me nailed to the bathroom floor. Worst of all, I had just turned down the only guy willing to go out with me.

The dress hung limply in my closet like a flower bud which had never bloomed. I had chosen something which was a deep red and not at all like the pink frosting I had always found myself envisioning. This I had found in a corset shop in Spitalfields Market. When I stepped out of the dressing room a man who was there with his wife, who said “I don’t know what you are looking for, but that dress is the one.” It was a deep red.

Two days later I had managed to scrape myself off the bathroom floor and get some work done, but as soon as my roommate left I collasped into a mess. Finally I took the dress out of my closet and shoved it fiercely into the plastic bag it came in.

When it comes to attending your first black tie dinner, class warfare shouldn’t be an issue.

Perhaps I should back up… a lot.

In high school I went solo to one dance, and swore I would never do that again. An upper middle class suburban high school had somewhat different ideas of what constituted a formal dance than the typical television portrayal, and inclusiveness was not a favorable trait. And I wasn’t your high school boyfriend type. I didn’t have pompoms or glitter eye shadow. I had on a three piece suit, a leather briefcase, and by junior year I had read cover to cover The Norton Anthology of Literature—both the American and British volumes.

So, needless to say, I was never asked out to any of the school dances. And I was fine with this. Or so I thought. By the end of college, after trading in the lawyer for a teacher and then the teacher for a thespian, I still had not found any time to attend a formal, as they always seemed to fall on the final week of rehearsals before a production. And once again I was satisfied with my time management skills.

The problem is with being a woman in a wheelchair, is that sooner or later those quiet Friday nights begin to add up. And you begin to wonder if the reason why boys don’t come knocking is because there is something, quite literally wrong with you. But, doing my best not to dwell on anything, my life went on, taking me to London.

Within a year working as an independent access consultant in London a client asked me to sit at their table at an awards banquet. The event was to be black tie only. Almost instantly all guards against fairytale nights and big poofy skirts were demolished. Before I could even get the words out to accept the invitation I had visions bathed in pink, satin, lace, and tulle capable of nauseating every sugarplum fairy in existence.

When I noticed the invitation said “plus one,” I searched the little black book for possible candidates. Whoever he was (because I was bringing a date and therefore he had to be male), had to be a good feeder. I didn’t want to worry about anything being spilled on my dress. And so, I found my perfect match, called him up, asked him out, he accepted. Done. Now I could move onto the really important bits, like picking out a dress.

Two weeks before the dinner my date discovers some unexpected good news which causes him to have to cancel.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” I told him half jokingly. “I’m friends with loads of starving artists. Surely I can find someone who wants a free steak and lobster dinner.” I returned to my black book, left a few messages, and went back to looking for a pair of shoes to fit the ordeal. Given that I never actually had to walk the entire night, my footwear options were limitless.

              When my roommate brought home a new fling, I didn’t pay much attention. In our house, boys come and go, and while most of them are friendly they all have their faults. So, we’ve learned not to get too attached, not to invest too much, and not to become too annoyed by the fault that one can see plain as day even when the other cannot. But this particular one got unexpectedly on my bad side so fast that he managed to permanently smear himself to my disfavor.

              It started when I was stupid enough to walk across the floor of our new flat barefoot and I received a splinter from an ill cared for floor. This unleashed a general barrage of comments about my landlord not taking care of the place and not being responsible for his investment. I was having various amounts of trouble with the property owner that week and the splinter just sealed the deal.

              “But Athena, you shouldn’t hold people responsible to their actions like that. People just do stuff, it doesn’t mean anything,” he said, reclining on the couch and lazily fondling my roommate’s hand. OK, I instantly went from having on opinion about the guy to utter disgust all in a matter of four seconds. This was an impressive record. My somewhat embarrassed roommate asked him to clarify what he meant, which he gladly did, by repeating himself. I looked to my roommate in utter disbelief, ready to punch the guy in the face, before I realized that he would dismiss the action as being “just stuff.” What was the point?

              I couldn’t imagine having a relationship with a guy who, when asked to take responsibility for his actions, refuses to due so. More to the point, I can’t imagine having sex with someone who behaved in this manner either.

              The link between sex and responsibility is an issue that makes modern audiences very nervous. In an age of birth control and condoms we’d like to think that we’ve removed any responsibility from having sex. And we’ve gotten rid of the big ones to be sure, but sex is something which profoundly affects every facet of life including economics and politics.

              For a woman to have a partner who refuses to take responsibility for himself and his actions is like a throw back to the days before feminism.  Its saying that she doesn’t deserve someone who is honest with her or respects her. If he can’t be held accountable for his actions, what will stop him from  becoming abusive or cheating on his partner? Why should his girlfriend have any value to him, if he doesn’t value his own actions. 

              Like so many of society’s problems, this commentary is meaningless without making it concrete. Most women will say “I would never go out with anyone who would say that!” Fair enough, but would you get involved with someone who subconsciously believed it? How many times do you tell yourself excuses for your significant other. Or are left trying to explain the unexplainable to friends when your partner does something stupid?

              But then let’s add sex to the mix. It goes without saying that this sort of attitude carries huge risks for my friend in terms of STDs. But the ramifications become much more distressing than that. If a man refuses to take responsibility for his actions, then sex is meaningless to him in every sense of the word. It is not an act of adoration, commitment, or even enjoyment. If “people just do stuff” then the intention cannot exist, even if the intention was/is hedonism. Sex is “just stuff” and as mundane as doing your laundry or emptying your pockets. When even the most exciting things become mundane  there is no longer passion or even a sense of life.

              Suffice it to say, the beau didn’t last too long after that. I think my roommate figured out they didn’t have that much in common. It was the first one in a while that I had learned anything from, so this boy had more sticking power than most in my mind. And for that I tip my hat to him…not that I expect that to mean much to him. After all, people “just do stuff.” 

In university I would debate with my friend Mark about gender roles endlessly. Neither of us really fit into the common classifications for our sex. I was the one who was always looking for logic and reason, numbers and proofs. He was always ready to live by faith. When I would come home from four AM crew practice I would see him piling flowers into his car for the nursing home he volunteered at.We would drive by and I would honk the horn, making him slam his head on the top of the car before he looked out and waved at me. By that time, I was already to our dorm with my sweaty shirt stripped of and showing my sports bra.

From first hand experience I can say he was the best feeder on campus, and when in our junior year an incoming male freshman had a severe disability, Mark was first in line to offer to be a care taker. That’s what made me think of him this weekend.

While on a flight home I saw a family with an older son with cerebral palsy. Given that the son looked about eighteen years old I wasn’t surprised to see his father carry him on-board. But then for the next eleven hours it was the men of the family (particularly his father) which never left his side, helping him eat, adjust his iPod, or help him to the toilet.

Now maybe this behavior doesn’t seem odd to you, if not…then you are, admittedly, a much more progressive person than I am. Even though I have been lucky enough to have a wonderful relationship with my dad, growing up it is the mothers who I have always seen take their children to therapy, making the sacrifices needed to make sure her disabled child gets proper care.

What is it about a male taking care of someone else that doesn’t seem effeminate or out of place? If the qualities of nurturing and giving peace are qualities which we usually attribute to women, why do I look to the men of my life who offer the same gifts as the most masculine men I know? My mother often speaks of the male nurses she worked amongst with more reverence than any doctor. Their ability to lift fallen patients, provide calm in emergencies, and work the least desirable shifts have always shaped my image of what a man ought to be.

If a man is made by his strength, then his efforts and put others before himself is an act full of effort. If it is  muscle which is the defining characteristic of masculinity, then that muscle is only worth its use to serve others. And if it is gentleness that is somehow a feminine quality, undesirable by ‘real men,’ perhaps it is because the power which it takes to be gentle and supportive requires a unique combination which is beyond the reach of most every man.

Like so many other qualities, the most masculine thing is a man who never needs to question his masculinity. Because giving someone relief takes the same form of building a house or clearing a forest. It takes seeing what needs to be done, doing it, and not expecting anything in return.

I always thought Mark and I made a good team because he and I balanced each other out. I thought I was the male to his female. Now that I miss him, I’ve reevaluated my judgment. He is one of the best men I know as his particular brand of masculinity is one that made football players look sheepish as they ran by us on the quad.

            It is a long held tradition that a woman my age should be restless until she finds her match. And I do feel this pull as much as anyone, but recently I’ve been fortunate enough to have a small piece of  this hole filled in the strangest and most arbitrary way imaginable.

             It all started at a pub. All good stories in England start this way as a possible explanation for the most unlikely events.  Without such a preface the events that follow would  seem far fetched, this way it provides an excuse. Anyway, I had visited the S&W for a friend’s birthday and I had seemed to have overstayed my welcome. Not according to the pub, mind you. But whereas at midnight Cinderella’s carriage turned into a pumpkin, here in London the transit system becomes completely inaccessible. I got out of the pub just in time to see the last accessible boat leave the pier. I had just entered my own personal Twilight Zone where nothing is accessible and the world isn’t ready for a young red head in a wheelchair.

Ninety minutes and six phone calls to cab companies later, I was waving from a black cab at the men from the S&W who had found me a ride home. Chivalry was not dead, it had merely gone out for a drink after becoming very bored. It was at that point that I decided to visit the old pub a bit more often.

Over the next few months my roommate and I would visit the S&W two or three times a week. I would get to listen to stories from the men about their day, or join in debates. I would watch them play darts while I would perch on the leather couches and laugh at their insults. The greeting I would get when coming through the door was irreplaceable.

But what the men at the S&W gave me or  rather give me every time I visit the constant reiteration that I am a woman of great value and worthy of respect. For most young women  this particular gap can only be filled with a masculine influence. When a good guy is not readily available often time standards will get lowered just so the loneliness is filled. And to our own fault, sometimes we are so busy looking for an idealized version of romance that we miss the many other facets of love right in front of us. The S&W reminds me to stop looking and start seeing. It is one of the few places in this city where I feel most like myself.

After eleven the pub technically closes. But the owner allows us to stay later so long as we keep buying drinks. I am far from done debating with a gentleman who must be some reincarnation of Hemingway. The chef has locked the bartender in the alcohol cage in some sort of ritualistic joke that never is funny but never gets old. Another game of Killer starts out on the dart board.

And I know, if I wanted it, any one of them would see me safely home.