Chapter 99: Wedding Shoes

They were PERFECT. 

Four delicate twinned rows of tiny rhinestones around the toe, four more around the ankle, all attached to an absolutely divine champagne-metallic leather shoe that looked as if it was left on the stairs as Cinderella made her midnight escape. The most beautiful, perfectly designed shoes I had ever seen, with a steep stiletto heel and just enough platform to balance the design and render them actually wearable. A heel zip meant the rhinestone ankle circlets remained unbroken and unspoiled, a delectable disco ball of sparkle. 

I had to have them. 

The minute I saw them, I could envision walking down the aisle, Prepdude’s blue gaze upon me, as we lock eyes in passionate love, knowing we would live the rest of our days in the best kind of eternal bliss, never mind the fact that so far there were more red flags than China in this relationship. I am wearing an amazing dress I love, not the “modest” one I wore when I was married in the ultrastrict religion. That frumpfest had long sleeves, a high neck, a massive train and absolutely no fun. It’s no wonder I didn’t run, I physically couldn’t in that dress. This time, I’m sauntering down the aisle bearing a strapless gown with a nipped in corset waistline and angelic poof of chiffon short enough to show off these fairytale shoes… wait, no, maybe a sleek goddess dress with trailing silk organza butterfly panels as I float down the aisle on the magical glowing heels…wait, no, maybe an Oscar-worthy sequined sheath I can barely breathe in… 

A thousand dresses float by in my imagination, all borne on these delicious, wonderful, fantastical stilettos.  

I’m going to get married in these shoes. 

I was absolutely sure Prepdude was my destiny. Surely this madcap romance would end with him on one knee, waterfall in the background, my hair blowing in the gentle tropical breeze as he asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. And, of course, I say yes, yes, YES! and jump in the arms of the man who would hold me for the rest of my days. 

But, like so many fantastical scenarios we dream up in our love lives, he didn’t ask (thank God), and it didn’t happen, and time after time as I hopefully dated possible suitor after possible suitor, I failed to close the deal, and the shoes wound up on a high shelf in my closet, hopelessly waiting for their long-delayed trip down the aisle. The ornate box glared down at me every time I opened the door to their prison, why haven’t you worn me yet? Are you seriously this bad at finding a groom?? all preaching down at me from the pulpit of a shelf I couldn’t reach without standing on a chair. After a few years, I had a love/hate relationship with the shoes, who stubbornly remained in style, a timeless design I couldn’t be rid of just because they were hopelessly outdated. 

They were not.

They continued to be beautiful. Still divine, still amazing.

And they still represented something I did not possess. 

Or maybe I was wrong. 

I believe I mentioned there was a proposal? 

So there we were, hiking amongst the rocks of Wisconsin’s summer beauty with my somewhat reluctant daughter, and I see it. 

A beautiful vista. As we climbed a rather steep rock path, the trees parted to reveal a breathtaking cliffside view. And I suddenly have an idea. 

I get down on one knee: “Monica, will you marry me?” 

My daughter looks at me like I just produced three rubber chickens and started juggling while singing the Macarena. I continue, I am completely undeterred. 

I get up and take the other position, standing opposite, jumping up and down with excitement: “Yes, YES!!” 

 And then I hug myself. 

My daughter is laughing. 

Yes, I just proposed to myself. And then accepted. Am I nuts?

Maybe, but I do feel a true freedom from all the years of waiting for this to happen. 

So here’s my question. 

Why can’t we just buy the dress and throw the party now? 

Why not have the honeymoon by ourselves?*

Why not have the long years of contentment regardless of whether someone else happens to be present? 

The day I proposed to myself was a resolution. A resolution to throw myself a party whenever I want. A resolution to buy a fancy expensive dress if I damn well feel like it, and to make my own trousseau just for me, (what’s a trousseau again?) and get myself the presents and stuff and whatever makes my life happy and allows me to celebrate with my friends. 

Guess what? You don’t need a significant other to say Yes to the Dress. 

Buy it yourself. Set up your own party. Have a blast with your real Significant Other, YOU. 

People often wait around for a significant other to start their lives. Mine was in a holding pattern these past post-church years, all for men who were more accurately Insignificant Others. The day of the proposal was a big step in confirming I already had everything I needed for a fulfilled and amazing life, and that I could still have the cool dress and awesome party. Hell, I may even buy the ring. Honey, it’s right there at the store, and this time you won’t get something tacky. 

So, back to the shoes…

When I come back from getting engaged to myself, I open my closet one morning and stare. An idea forms. 

I’m invited to a party with friends, a somewhat fancier event. I drag over a chair and climb up. I reach up my arms and take down the formerly forbidden box. I set it on the bed and stare at it, gilt print radiating from the matte black square. 

All of what I thought would bring down that magical box has changed. I contemplate the changes in my life for a few moments, then I do it. 

I open the lid to reveal layers of brand-imprinted tissue paper, and unfold it to reveal the treasure within. 

They are still sparkly, beautiful, and stunning. 

I’m going to wear those fuckers.

And so I get ready for the party, makeup applied carefully, hair twirled in waves, dress gently stepped into and zipped. 

And finally, the shoes. 

I step into the forbidden shoes and beam a huge smile, because the puff-piece in my imagination has been punctured in favor of the reality that I had been letting life pass me by while I waited, waited, waited for my Cinderella moment. 

I’m making my own Cinderella moment, no prince required. 

I write up the story of these shoes, and post it to a bunch of my close single friends. 

They want to see the shoes, too. 

And so, that night, I slip on these beauties and zip the back, a maimed Cinderella hobbling down the stairs to my carriage (actually a Jeep), driving my 177 horses there, and tottering in to my own engagement party (okay, it was a party with my friends). 

And I am having a GREAT time. And my friends are awesome. And I am living out my non-marital bliss alone. 

I dance all night, and fall into my bed early in the morning. 

I guess any night can be your wedding night, when you stop looking and start living. 

And my friends there that night are thrilled with the union.

But there are those who clearly are not.

*toys optional