Suede Heroine

( I wrote this on 19NOV07 and am transferring it over from another site which I am closing!)

I've always known that I'm not the girly-est of girly girls.  The fact was brought home with crystal clarity about two months ago when I got a job at the Department of State Health Services.   The dress code rules required that we dress at least in an "office casual" sort of style.   Well, for me, this meant wearing dress pants, tweedy looking skirts and heels. 

I was dressed in one of the aforementioned outfits this morning as I straggled into my building two or three minutes late.    I usually take the stairs up the three flights to my office in the immunization department (that "still watching the girlish figure" thing, ya know?).  However, on this day, I decided to take the elevator for two reasons

a) My tardiness and b) my precarious black heels. 

As I walked into the building, I noticed a cluster of people standing together near the elevator just as I heard the familiar ding which announces that the doors will soon open.  "Wait for me!!"  I hollered as I picked up speed and began running toward the elevator.  It soon became evident that they would hold the door for me, and I was ever so glad!   This running-in-heels bit is hard!

As I neared the door to the elevator, an image flashed across my mind.  (Imagine television dream sequence lines waving now—you know the ones that Bobby Brady or Jack Tripper always saw just before they imagined or remembered something?) 

~~~ A trim young woman with perfectly coiffed curly brown hair (or blonde, depending on the casting agent) cascading down her back is running.   And she's not just jogging either.  She has a gun in one hand and is dressed in a black leather outfit with shiny, bouncy, silver jewelry affixed to her ears, neck, wrists, and fingers.  The weight of the jewelry does not faze her.  The excessive amount of running does not shorten her breath in any way.  In fact, her screams of "STOP, Scumbag!!" ring out loud and clear as she hurdles a park bench in pursuit of her prey.   Neither is she hindered by the 3-inch black stiletto heels she is wearing.  Her speed never slackens as she chases the bad guy whose worn and frayed denim trousers and vest are becoming sweat-stained as he runs toward an alley and what he hopes is escape. 

As Mr. Bad Guy clears the fence, he stumbles over a bit of trash left in the alley.  Immediately after his head bounces off the pavement, he feels a sharp prick in his back.  It is not a gun or a knife which nearly pierces the denim in his jacket, but the black stiletto heels of the bad-guy-bum-kicking totally-fantastic heroine.  This woman is no bleeding heart Mom type.  Oh no!  Mr. Bad Guy's pain only increases as he feels his hands being jerked behind him and the cuffs being affixed, quite firmly, around his      wrists.~~~

(Undo the dream sequence now, will ya?) 

Back in the real world, I breathe a sigh of relief as the elevator door closed behind our work-bound group.   As we rode up to the third floor, I wondered to myself "Fabulous…how do those superhuman, supermodel-esque, fake-bad-guy-catching actresses do it?  I can't begin to count the number of movies I've seen wherein they feature at least one scene remarkably like the one I just imagined. (Think Charlie's Angels, any of the James Bond movies, Emma—no wait!  Not that one!)

Having worked on two film sets, I'm aware that these actresses actually have to perform the scenes, over and over again for sometimes 20 hours at a time.   The question came to me again.  "How do they do it?"  I couldn't even handle running ten feet in heels.  I wonder if they have an acting class for running in high heels?   It almost seems like they HAVE to have one.    Or, perhaps, they skip the classes and just hire foot masseurs to help relax the actresses' feet between takes?   What a hard job that must be…chasing bad guys in heels!  I only have to wear heels at work, you know, in order to look kinda nice. However, the minute my feet slide under my desk, the heels come off.  

I'm usually happy being "just me."  There are moments, I must admit, wherein I wish ~just a little bit~ that I were a bit more "conventionally" good-looking with rockin' cool red hair.  Or, perhaps that I were a super-skinny, bum kicking, bad-guy catching super star, but today, after running those measly ten feet in heels, I think I'll stick with being "just me", a suede (not leather)  superhero who only saves the day when she keeps the elevator door open for a runner or makes someone smile with her silliness.