Thursday, April 4, 2013

Harold

Seen waiting for the Red Line to 95th at about 8:45 a.m.

Spring! What a glorious time of year! Once the sun peeks its cheerful head from behind the clouds, once the temperature ekes its way up to fifty degrees, so many wonderful sights are revealed. The trees are budding. The air is full of chirping birds, the grass full of breeding rabbits. And, most importantly: ballet flats. Ballet flats and kitten heels and espadrilles. The beautiful ladies of Chicago strip off those suffocating boots to reveal their immaculate, lily white feet.

I love looking for the ones with toe cleavage, little shadowy stripes that tug my imagination towards the delightful wiggling appendages themselves. Are her toenails painted? If so, what color? Would my tongue wrap comfortably around her big toe? It’s even better when they wear skirts or flood pants, for then I can see the whole thing, rosy ankle and all.

I’ve been this way ever since I can remember. My brightest memories include: my mother’s freckled feet wobbling in her high heels, soft moccasins caressing the tan feet of my first crush, seeing a ballerina’s battered feet and crying.

Truthfully, I like it better in the spring than I do in the summer. You may think someone like me would enjoy watching all those shapely feet on full display in sandals, but that’s simply not the case. It seems so lewd in the summer, so inappropriate, that the women flash around their beaux pieds so wantonly. I find it much more alluring when parts are covered up.

It’s an exquisite sort of agony, being so close to these women on the train, their legs crossed, causing the cuffs of their pants to ride ever higher. I want to touch them, to kiss them, but I know it can never be. I’m just an old man, harmless until I make a move. If I attempted to fulfill my desires, I would become disgusting to them. I don’t want to scare them into hiding their feet away. That’s the worst thing I could do. Give me all the bad sides of spring—the rain and the wind and the mud—but don’t take away those ballet flats.

The production of Measure for Measure last night at The Goodman was fantastic. It's set in 1970's NYC, so I say yes to disco Shakespeare. It's also very cinematic, like the director wanted to make a movie but only had actors and a stage, not cameras, at his disposal. Lots of walking in slow motion, etc. I'd recommend it, if you have a chance to see it before it closes. 

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