“You shouldn’t wear high heels anymore.”  The podiatrist delivered this devastating blow with a self-satisified sniff, barely glancing at my stricken face.

I replied with something akin to, “ARE YOU FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME?”

Now that I had the Dr.’s full attention, her demeanor became more consoling, her tone…almost maternal. Suddenly I was more than just another foot in her face; I was an exposed metatarsal who needed coddling.

Since about the age of four, I’ve had an innocent habit of sitting on my right foot, simply because it provided an elevated comfy cushion. Over the years this harmless peccadillo of mine has  morphed into an angry pack of inflamed nerves between my third and fourth toes that flares up, willy-nilly, without any warning whatsoever. By ‘flares up’ I mean a sensation of being stabbed with an ice pick between the toes.

It doesn’t happen often–only four times in the past year–but the last time it happened, I looked around for a nice place to die.  I was outside, near the Washington Monument, but it seemed too grandiose for me. I’m not a former President, or even a non-voting member of Congress. So I hopped along on one foot, like a tortured contestant in a sadistic game of hopscotch, to the nearest metro stop, which happened to be somewhere near Virginia.

No-heel shoes are almost as bad as high-heel shoes for me, so in the future I’ll be sticking to 1-2 inch platforms with good arch support. It’s like being punished without ever having committed a crime; like being condemned to wearing gray sweatpants in a world filled with brightly colored sarongs.

All things considered though, this couldn’t have happened at a better time. I’ve never really embraced  the platform-front shoes that have become so popular these last couple of years. They remind me of the Frederick’s of Hollywood heels worn by the transgender fishwife hookers I used to see on Manhattan’s 9th Avenue while on my way to classes at The New School. Not a style I care to emulate. And, truth be told, for the past few years I’ve only worn heels when absolutely necessary (weddings, etc…). Silently and without any conscious decision on my part, I’ve evolved into a woman who cares more about comfort than style. The only logical explanation is that someone put an evil curse on me, probably in Greece.

But indulge me in moment of frivolity as I close this chapter of my fashionable footwear life with a requiem for some of my towering flights of fancy from years past:

Thank you, back-zip BCBG boots, for passing me off as a Femme Fatale. Sorry about that incident of trailing toilet paper at the Kennedy Center:

Thank you, Italian Milano boots, for your sharp and pointy tips that, in a pinch, could serve as lethal weapons. The way the world under-estimates me has always been my greatest weapon:

Thank you, Brian Atwood Daisy Dukes, for lowering my IQ by 50 points with a single glance at your stone-washed denim and red tassels: yee-haw, ya’ll. Wish I’d gotten more than one wear out of you, I don’t care how ridiculous I looked:

Thank you, German-bought Fornarina stilts, for adding five inches to my stature and making me feel like a Teutonic Valkyrie. I was once the tallest person in Malaysia thanks to you:

To my understated Chanel’s and Vaneli kitten heels: you’re not going anywhere.  They’ll have to pry you off my cold, dead, feet.

I shall speak of this no further.

© 2012, Ithaka Bound. All rights reserved.

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or What happens when alpha males get together

The story goes something like this: The great Athenian hero Theseus and his best friend Pirithous, King of the Lapithae, were sitting around bored and looking for a challenge. On a whim, the newly widowed Pirithous announced that he would have the most closely guarded lady in the entire universe for his second wife–Persephone herself. Theseus pledged his support, and true to his thrill-seeking competitive nature, took up his friend’s challenge and declared that he would first carry off Helen (always Helen!)–future heroine of Troy–before he helped Pirithous abduct Persephone from the underworld.

I think it’s safe to assume that alcohol and massive egos were involved.

Theseus successfully abducted Helen (poor Helen!), but while Theseus and his friend were on their way to the underworld, Helen’s brothers, Castor and Pollux, led the Spartan army against the city that held her. They made sure to sack the city before taking Helen back to Sparta.

Few details are known about the journey to the underworld, but Hades–Persephone’s ‘husband’ and god of the underworld–was perfectly aware of Pirithous’s and Theseus’s intentions and devised a plan to thwart them. When the pair arrived, Hades didn’t kill them, as they were already in the realm of death, but rather invited them to to have a seat and rest after their long journey. As soon as they took the places Hades offered them, serpents tightly coiled around them and bound them to their seats. They had unwittingly sat on the Chair of Forgetfulness–a chair that makes a clean slate of memory and holds forever those who sit on it.

Luckily for Theseus, his cousin Heracles was passing through the underworld to finish his twelfth labor–taking Cerberus back to Mycenae. Cerberus was the three-headed dog who stood guard over the entrance to Hades, ensuring that all who crossed the River Styx were never allowed to leave. When Heracles saw the two unfortunate over-achievers, he took pity on them and managed to free Theseus. Unfortunately, Hades returned before he was able to set Pirithous loose.

Athenians are said to have such lean thighs because part of Theseus’ thighs were torn off when Heracles pulled him free from the chair.

Back in the land of sunshine, Theseus set off for Athens. But poor Pirithous, for all we know, still sits on the Chair of Forgetfulness. (O thou Memorie! So fleeting! O Despair!)

Inspired by this story, I’ve designated the beautiful bench pictured at the top of this post as my Chair of Forgetfulness. My chair is benevolent in nature and differs from the chair of legend in several key ways: it’s in a garden rather than in Hades; it’s surrounded by roses rather than serpents; and I’m free to leave whenever I want. These differences work out well for me. In this sylvan setting, saturated with the heady scent of roses, I’m able to forget just about anything.

Where is your chair?

© 2012, Ithaka Bound. All rights reserved.

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While scanning the week’s news events, I came across this:

A longhaired goat that ran away from a Minnesota nativity scene on Christmas Eve is finally back home after being on the lam for 25 days.

The errant animal, named Curley, turned herself in when she wandered onto the farm owned by Tony Loomer and family, near Fergus Falls, Minn.

After laughing for a good while, I wanted more information.

Curley was probably innocently volunteered by her owners to serve in the adoring spectacle of the nativity, but I couldn’t help wondering what went through Curley’s mind just before she made her bid for freedom. It’s clear that standing there, serving as a representative of something she couldn’t even guess at, all those eyes glaring at her, Curley decided she was having none of it.

I’ve written before about my wish to have a goat farm. This desire was ignited while talking to a farmer who explained to me that goats were extremely social animals. “You can’t have just one goat,” he said, “because it’ll die of loneliness.” This instinct endeared goats to my heart because it manifest something that’s true of most living creatures. Vulnerability and frailty are beautiful qualities to possess, in humans as well as goats.

Years ago on a hike through the Swiss Alps, I ran across a goat-herder leading his herd down the mountain. As I passed them, the first goat in the herd began to follow me and I soon had the whole herd following me up the mountain. Clang, clang, clang went their little bells. Endearing.

Curley was found half-frozen and starving in farmer Loomer’s herd. For Curley, freedom meant the comforting company of her own kind. Home is where she most wanted to be. Her owners were practically in tears when they learned that she had been found. In other words, the perfect ending.

© 2012, Ithaka Bound. All rights reserved.

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After the Athenians trounced the Persians so thoroughly at the Battle of Marathon, the Persian emperor Darius became so single-minded in his quest for vengeance, he instructed a slave to whisper in his ear three times every night while serving dinner, “Master, remember the Athenians!”

First, how could you possibly ever enjoy a dinner again when constantly being reminded of your most crushing defeat?

Second, how awesome would it be to have someone around who constantly reminded you to stay focused on your priorities! It goes without saying that I am completely against servants of any type, but if I could, I would gladly pay someone to serve this function in my life.

I’m particularly sold on this now, because for the past two months I’ve been focused on a singular goal to the exclusion of all other goals. So much so, I couldn’t even visit my parents in Wisconsin for Orthodox Christmas because it meant I would probably lose hold on my tenuous focus. I justified this by reminding myself that they would be gaining much by my success as well. I reached my goal, but my victory wasn’t quite as resounding as the Athenians. It’s the equivalent of the Athenians saying, “Well, that wasn’t half bad, but next time we’ll have to really defeat them.”

Still, I comfort myself with the reminder that at least I got further along than Darius did. Xerxes, Darius’s successor, initially cared very little about getting revenge on the Greeks until his ambitious brother-on-law Mardonius began provoking him to rage over their humiliating defeat at Marathon. This led to the Persians amassing the greatest land force in history to meet 300 Spartans at a 50 foot pass at Thermopylae. We all know how that turned out. Hubris: too bad we can never see it before it’s too late.

In other news, now that I have somewhat more time, I’d really like to spruce the joint up a bit. This current blog theme was only supposed to be a temporary hold until I had more time to do a redesign. I find myself wanting to avoid my own blog because I don’t like the look of it. It’s like this blog is my hard-scrabble cousin who lives in a trailer park and sells his own moonshine: I am bound to him by love and affection, but a little too embarrassed to claim relation. So, it’s time for a redesign. I’m definitely open to suggestions.

© 2012, Ithaka Bound. All rights reserved.

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I’m interrupting regularly scheduled Greek posting to start the new year off with a walk among the stars, just because it’s fun.

And my favorite star of all…

© 2012, Ithaka Bound. All rights reserved.

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