Career Swerve

(Originally, August 17 2005)

A few days ago, I called Albany for news much the way a wounded dog sidles up to its' cruel master. And as expected, I got another swift kick. The hydroencephalic operator told me, by looking up my social security number, that I needed to request my bachelor's transcript, and that they haven't received anything yet from my supervisor (which HAS to be erroneous, because she sent me a copy three months ago of the document she signed and had notarized, and sent to Albany), nor have they heard from my New Jersey licensing board. AND that I shouldn't bother asking the Processing Dept. because "they're not gonna go through all that stuff for you. That's how they get backlogged." I was set to throw my phone into traffic and join the homeless on the D train forever.

Instead, I remembered my current series of essays here on the blog and realized that although life is super-sucky right now, and if it gets any worse it can only become a moot point, I will still survive. I can still be at peace.

That was me on Columbus Avenue and 79th St on a bench outside an eatery. I meditated and watched the people go by. I observed, and not for the first time, that white males love their toes. I challenge anyone within the sight of these words, to walk outside in any fairly busy social setting and cast your eyes downward. Gauge the volume of sandaled and flip-flopped feet you see, and of what ratio of the male feet belong to whites. A second runner-up are our Indian (Asian) brothers. Pink- and peach-colored toes EVERYWHERE.

Let me digress a little about feet. My Childhood Bud and his family used to tease me about how I was a nut about feet. A nut, as in how much I hated them. And yes, I did hate them. I hated the fact that men had toes. Children could have toes, and of course women can have toes, with their painted, colorful nails and their sexy heels and ankles--but men's toes were always off-the-chart gross to me. The only origin I can suspect has to have come from my father. His feet were not just hideous, they were scarred and damaged. I heard my mother once say, and she might have actually been telling it to me personally, that my father's feet were damaged in the war by exposure to swamps and other nasty fungal effects. Whatever. I just know his skin was always scabby there, and alligator-like. And that's about as much as I want to say about that. (Gives me the creeps just saying THAT much about them).

So the deconstruction of masculinity began with my father. His whole presentation was pitiful as a Man, let alone his feet. That no-job-holding, violent-drunk-wife-beating, jive-time-lying-to-his-reportedly-Only-Son-having, old Player!

Fast forward to Spring Valley, New York. In my pre-teens, to see a man with bare feet was like seeing a man wearing lipstick. It was feminine and yucky. I always thought that if men had feet like socks, with the shape but no toes or nails, then we would be perfect masculine specimens, just the way women with their cute stubby toes were adorable.

This went on throughout all my adolescent and young adult years. One of the major deterrents when engaged to my first serious girfriend was the possibility that she would one day see me barefoot. That was more scary to me than her seeing me naked (and that WAS a very scary prospect).

I started having to deal when I went out to Bible School at 27 years old, and live in a dormitory for the first time. I was one of The Two Only Black People there, and the other one had a white, blonde mother. EVERYBODY slapped around the dorms with naked feet (except me). It was SO gross!!!!!!! But I had to pretend that I was 1) mature, 2) godly, and 3) not mentally/emotionally unstable (which was easy to do when I actually believed it at the time). So I just pretended that my eyes weren't being drawn down to all those wrinkled pink blobby gnarled little piggies a hundred times a day, and that even if I did look, it was as common as noticing their suit ties or their fingers.

And now, 13 years later, this is my second Summer in NYC and I find my eyes drawn to the pavement and to those feet again! And what I've noticed again this year is that white males, above all the other male ethnicities, will scoot out to the avenue in a raggedy pair of flip-flops quicker than a cat meows at the sound of an opening can.

Yet another thing I'm jealous of. To be so confident about your body parts that you will just flaunt them anywhere, anytime. You know how you can tell the difference between a light-skinned Cubano and a white boy here in Harlem? Flip-flops. As self-conscious as I would think a white boy would be, surrounded by all these down-and-gritty impoverished and ANGRY black young men, the least of their worries seems to be what their naked feet look like.

Are they proud of their feet? Are they blissfully ignorant?

As I observe, I have to admit that the majority of these, my white brethren, take care of their feet. Either that, or nature has gifted the white race with good feet. That is, of course, if the man is athletic, trim, and not overtly suffering from some circulatory disease like diabetes, or is grossly overweight, then most of these exposed toes are well proportioned, clean, with well-proportioned, trimmed and clear nails. Even the infamous fifth little piggie has hope on these white boys, even if it cranks to the side from time to time.

And just when I get to suspecting that I harbor a raging foot fetish, I realize that the media has the same aversion to men's feet as I do. The only male celebrity's feet I believe I've actually seen captured in print is Bruce Willis, back when "Die Hard" was blowing up. I also noticed Adrien Brody's feet looked extremely perfect in the commercials for "The Jacket" when they made their brief appearance. Otherwise, I suspect many other feet we've seen have been foot-doubles. Especially the scene in "Notting Hill" when Julia Roberts is remarking on the size of Hugh Grant's propped-up feet. At first blush I though, "When have I ever seen a pair of men's feet so prominently featured in a scene?"--and I harkened back to "Cocoon" when Shawnee Welch massaged Steve Guttenberg's damaged foot and healed the broken bones with her alien magic. At second blush I though "are those really his feet? The angle there looks crazy." (Indeed, the foot Shawnee was massaging was never in the same scene as Steve's body or leg). At third blush I though, "Movies purposefully do not show their male actors' feet to this much detail, and THAT'S why this scene is so unusual!!"

Which brings me back to my original proposal. Men's feet are yucky!

Whooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Where was I? Oh, on Columbus and 79th, behind the Museum of Natural History, watching white men's feet go by. And I was completely feeling like I should stop pursuing this license. That my life would be better if I weren't trying so hard to take on this type of responsibility over people's secrets and lies and lives. That this latest complication should be the final nail in the coffin of my NYC Therapist' dream.

But what would I have left? How would I ever be able to move out of my friend's house in NJ, once I got myself trapped up in there? Which segued into how much I didn't want to leave New York City and how much I loved it here. How cool it felt to be sitting on a bistro bench, overlooking the Museum's hinderparts, letting my mind drift along the avenue and sally forth among the towering rows of architecture. I reigned in my jealousy over those who's lives took them up to those homes in the sky on a daily basis, and just wondered what I could possibly do to one day join them if I didn't go through with my therapist gig.

*PING*

(Has it hit you yet?)

WHAT IF I BECAME A REAL-ESTATE AGENT????

I. Know. People. The one talent I have in this world is that. I am a good therapist.

And I LOVE this city. One and a half years of blogging will attest to that.

So add those two elements together with my need for finance and my desire to live as classily as all these other new high-rise dwellers, and there it is! By being a real-estate agent, I get to visit these apartments, townhouses, and businesses on the regular with purpose and privileges! I get to meet and rub elbows with these people who can afford it! And I get a cut of that specific wealth if they make their purchase, rather than just sit by and watch enviously!

Well, I did some homework, and I have an interview tomorrow at a brokerage in Tribeca (!!!!!!!!!!!) which seemed a little too enthusiastic to snatch me up, so something must be scamilicious, but I intend to get mucho information about the business from this interview. I also learned that I can take a week's worth of intensive courses and be ready for the state exam before the end of the month for the Real Estate salesperson's license. So even if I have to crash in NJ, I can get my NYC jollies by fulfilling this career change. And meanwhile, if this NYC therapist's license happens to show up one day, I might just give it a pass if the money, travel, and social exposure is already good enough.

Why isn't everyone a real estate broker??