It’s sad that in the weeks preceding, I thought frequently of the people who would be most critical of me. That’s been life; anything I did was cause for gossip. I knew that attending alone, sans escort, would mean (to them) that I couldn’t get a date. That wearing stylish clothes would make me look stupid and frumpy clothes would make me look, well, frumpy. And heaven forbid I use big words!
So I did what I wanted. I wore an aqua dress that refers to the Sixties. All it wanted was white go-go boots but instead, I wore sparkly little heels with ankle straps. The ceremony and reception were at a marina so the heels frequently got stuck between wooden slats. No problem, though, since I could just give a quick tug to free myself.
I had recently determined that I the backs of my feet are narrow and I should stop trying to wear classic pumps. I tested my theory in a large shoe outlet, trying on various styles and, waddya know, I was right!
Now, this is a lesson often learned in a girl’s teens but I missed that step. Lack of healthcare meant that I grew up with postural issues that made heels difficult to wear. And even with coverage, doctors don’t look at a patient holistically, with an eye to small defects that cause real discomfort. It’s only after I started taking adult dance classes that I discovered I was able to self-correct my posture and gait.
So I strode from my car, through the gravel parking lot onto the pier, grinning at my relatives in the arriving limousine. The ceremony was joyful, unique and lovely, the bride radiant, the groom uncharacteristically emotional. The families got along and the reception was one big party. The women eventually ditched their dress shoes for sandals or bare feet.
I was sad as I dashed out into the rain to change shoes in the car. I needed to switch but felt like a little tween wearing grownup shoes for the first time, wanting just a few more moments of feeling like a princess.