I think I walk like a Dork

The first time I saw Grease, the summer after third grade, I wanted to walk like Danny Zuko. He just had this… swagger, with all this up-and-down arm motion, as though the bones from his heel to his shoulder were fused together. So, I practiced. Yes, I actually practiced walking. Swing the leg up, lift the shoulder, and bring them back down… It was an exhausting routine. John Travolta must have trained for months for that role! I tried to get my friends to join me, but they hadn’t seen the movie and didn’t realize just how cool I was trying to make them. Wiped out, I too gave up after a week.

By fifth grade—right around the time we all started thinking girls were pretty rad—I had become obsessed with how I looked while walking. I’d be playing outfield in kickball (nobody would let me near a base), then have to come in when it was our turn to kick. I’d start running then quickly realize that it made me look too excited. So I’d downshift, walking casually as if to say, “Hey I’m walking, but I don’t care.” Suddenly I’d be critiquing how my feet and legs were moving in conjunction with the rest of my body. Bend your knees more. Should my arms be swinging? No, keep them still. But then I’ll look too stiff. This can’t look right can it? I decided that maybe running was, in fact, the lesser of two evils.

It got worse as I got older. By seventh grade, for whatever reason, my heels stopped touching the ground when I walked. The middle of my foot would hit, then I’d roll up onto the ball and keep on going. No big deal really, except that it caused my head to bob up and down enough that others began to imitate. I couldn’t even blame it on some really cool sports injury or terminal illness. The closest I’d ever come to a bona fide limp was the time I stubbed my toe on a teammate’s foot during a pee-wee basketball game.

I was already short and skinny with bad skin. I couldn’t let this be yet another trigger for adolescent ridicule. By eighth grade, I was once again practicing how I walked. It was a conscious effort, keeping my eyes on my feet and watching their progress as I talked myself through. Heel to toe. Bend the knee and swing it forward. And again, heel to toe… Some people think that walking with the head down indicates a lack of self-confidence. Well, sometimes it just indicates an inspection of motor skills.

With determination, I eventually broke myself of that toe-walking stigma, gliding gracefully through the halls, my head showcasing only the smallest, most natural hint of bounce. Of course, there were times when I was concentrating so much on my heel-to-toeing that I didn’t actually watch where I was walking and ended up bumping into open lockers.

These days, I can walk with my eyes forward and my head held high. The heel-to-toe concept is second nature. Of course, lingering pubescent trauma doesn’t go away that easily. Every time—and I do mean every time—I’m walking near a pretty girl, I become maniacally aware of the movement of my feet, legs, ankles and knees. If it’s just her, me and a whole lot of ground to cover—like that long walk to and from the reception desk—my eyes instantly drop to my feet, positive I’m tip-toeing, my head bobbing like a buoy with each step. So, I readjust. Now I’m certain I’ve overcorrected and am probably walking like Donnie Hubbard, that goofy, special-ed kid from high school whose head never broke the X-plane even while he was running. I double- and triple-check, perfecting each step until I veer into and trip over the magazine rack. My only recourse at that point is to tuck my chin into my chest, walk faster, and get away before she calls the cops.

So ladies, if we ever cross paths on the street or in the lobby, please don’t mind me. I’m not avoiding eye contact. I just think I walk like a dork.