When I think of body obsessions I might think of nineteenth-century Japan and geishas and footbinding. A lesson from Wikipedia: "While bound feet were considered desirable by some men, a misconception is that men found the deformed foot, in the flesh, erotic. In general, men never saw a woman's bound feet, as they were always concealed within tiny 'lotus shoes.' Feng Xun is recorded as stating, 'If you remove the shoes and bindings, the aesthetic feeling will be destroyed forever.' Some scholars have claimed that the erotic effect was a function of the tiny steps and swaying walk of a woman whose feet had been bound. The very fact that the bound foot was concealed from men's eyes was, in and of itself, sexually suggestive."
My Golden Frog ladies would have given you all kinds of insights into this savage practice. And they might have told you an American version, like this:
"Elvis also adored fondling and sucking women's toes, and those in his entourage who were given the job of choosing companions for him would often be asked to check the girls' feet. Small and delicate was the Presley ideal and at least two girlfriends reported havingbeen given the nickname 'Bitty' by Elvis in honour of their 'itty-bitty' feet" (Observer Magazine).
But I know they'd like this lesser-known take on body and illusion, from the voice of the main character Sayuri as she watched her older geisha mentors (from Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden):
"I must tell you something about necks in Japan, if you don’t know it; namely, that Japanese men, as a rule, feel about a woman’s neck and throat the same way the men in the West might feel about a woman’s legs. This is why geisha wear the collars of their kimono so low in the back that the first few bumps of the spine are visible; I suppose it’s like a woman in Paris wearing a short skirt. Auntie painted on the back of Hatsumomo’s neck a design called sanbon-ashi—'three legs.' It makes a very dramatic picture, for you feel as if you’re looking at the bare skin of the neck through little tapering points of a white fence . . . in a way, it’s like a woman peering out from between her fingers.”
With all this in mind, I went to the Mall of America. If life is a cabaret, all illusion and presentation, then the shopping mall outfits us for the part. I shopped first at Ikea, only my second time visiting the store. Like Alice in Wonderland I got lost in the maze. Pretty rooms galore, yes, but how do I get out? I kept landing in the pristine kiddie rooms. They weren't the least bit disheveled with all their flower nightlamps and sock organizers. I found my way to MARKETPLACE and made my selection and when I stood in line with my wares the chic man behind me said, "Don't you just love this place?"
And then I went over to Macy's where the store clerk came into my dressing room while I was out looking for another size (while wearing the too-big store garment) and she took my own street clothes (clearly worn and used and NOT NEW) and brought them over to her register and began hanging them up on hangars. When I got back I was confused my dressing room was empty so I walked over to the register and found her there hanging up my old things. If even she can't tell the old from the new. . . .
Still, I bought a new dress. And then I bought new shoes. And then I practiced my turns in the mirror, watching for my own dramatic picture.
It was hot but all that shopping had made my feet sore and I gave them a break by biking up to the co-op to buy something for my dinner and then to Walgreen's to pick up some bubble bath.
It had been a good and long weekend and I had been successful in my mantra to love the part, love the whole. There is in all of us a bit of illusion and a wish for beauty and stardom. But there is also a healthy measure of self-awareness, with our feet planted firmly on the ground. Like so many other things in my life, I was not preparing for the glass slipper or the lacquered zori but simply a rich life full of lush moments and willing transformations.
