They say you can learn a lot about someone by their shoes. I like to wear worn old dress shoes with form-fitting jeans. My shoes have always been one-and-a-half sizes too big. My mom used to buy them so that I’d grow into them, and I guess I never grew out of wearing them with an extra bit of space. If this particular pair of shoes could talk, I doubt they’d say much. After all, I’ve taken the metaphor as far as I can—maybe even one line too long.
I am presenting a paper at the Under Western Skies conference, one of Alberta’s largest interdisciplinary environmental conferences. And, as far as eclectic is concerned, this is a conference full of everything from brown Uggs, to black cowboy boots, to white hush puppy dress shoes.
Tables seat ten and faces twist trying to listen to some of the more soft-spoken parts of my presentation.
Some listen attentively, unmoving, others pretend to understand and slowly nod or shake their heads when I add emphasis to the inconsequential sections of my presentation.
I try to slow down, I try to measure gravitas. I had cut all the adjectives; sliced every adverb; and shot each dangling participle in my paper, but I’m nervous and it’s too cliché to complain about.
I’m approaching my conclusion so I speed up, catch myself, and then slow down—it’s too late though. I pause at a semicolon, which makes me question my validity, my ethos as a writer. Eyes look down at their coffee and tea cups. There are ceramic mugs that are painted with Haida shapes—they must be professors’. A table of students has ten cups of Starbucks—all double cupped—and the irony isn’t lost on me. They flick their lids noisily. A friend in the corner holds her “Don’t be a Nenshi Noun” coffee cup a little too tight—she’s nervous for me. I speed up. I’m approaching the dénouement.
The embodiment of juxtaposition, a blonde with perfect posture is rapidly typing on her laptop. She is the antagonist I imagined and she knows it. She looks at me not with a scowl, but with … indifference? She will not be moved by my words.
I can feel the dramatic irony of my paper approaching. The punch. Everyone’s looking down now. They’re embarrassed for me. Turning from the mic, I deliver my last sentence—a gerund—and a few eyes look up from their shoes.