And so, I’ve kinda spent all day looking for wedding shoes.
It’s no secret that my original ‘bridal vision’ involved Doc Martens. I got one of those visions after I figured out what exactly a bridal vision was, and I’m still not really sure. Anyway, wedding Docs. Problem is, I don’t really like white. Or flowers.
But I saw myself in wedding boots for a few reasons. I need the support, and I can’t wear something that I step out of while dancing. Because it may fly across the room and hit someone in the head. And that would be dangerous. For them.
On my wedding day of all days, I’d like to avoid slippery shoes. I also don’t like heels, and the feeling is mutual.
Another reason I was thinking boots is because I don’t like white. Or flowers. Or ivory and flowers. Or peep toes. And I always thought kitten heels sounded like cruelty to feet. Or animals.
I’ve always had a weird relationship with shoes. When I was a kid, I would go around clicking my tongue, pretending my sturdy, practical rubber soles made the same sound as ‘grown-up shoes.’ The tongue thing was not a nervous tic, just a six year-old’s wish.
Saying that, I had other wishes back then. When I listed my wishes, Clicky shoes, as I called them, came between ‘Siblings’ and ‘a midnight blue Mazda’. That’s how my mind worked. Still does.
Most shoes I coveted back then weren’t designed for someone who wore braces up to her hips and then her knees. I got that.
It wasn’t all bad. At all. My red sneakers were cool. And my Rainbow Brite sneakers were bitchin’.
But I can’t help but think there’s a tiny part of me that doesn’t like girlyshoeswithsixinchheels because they are inaccessible to me. That tiny part of me may be six-years old.
There’s a bigger part of me that just loves boots. Feels powerful in boots. Rocks the boots.
She wants to wear Docs to her wedding. Plan was to buy plain ones and have butterflies painted on them. That’s turning out to be a giant pain in the ass. With too many weeks involved. Or something.
I can get bespoke ones. My friends have offered to paint them. My mother has offered to paint them. But my thoughts are in words. Not vines and swirls and butterflies, as much as I love them. I can’t design stuff. I can’t tell anyone what I want. I don’t know what I want until I see it.
I’m seeing lovely non-white Docs with satin laces. They aren’t purple. They might pass for purple, though. Are they, forgive me, special enough to get married in? Maybe not.
I went shopping with my bridal crew for their shoes. I might have looked for myself. I didn’t see anything I wanted. Or anything that would stay on my feet where someone else puts them.
‘I need straps! Rubber soles!’ I said in one shop and then another. And then another. ‘Straps are too thin,’ I might have said in one place. ‘Those straps are too strappy.’
‘Mary Janes, court shoes,’ I listed. ‘Think outside the shoe.’ Nothing.
Today’s search was ‘purple Mary Janes’. Lots of ‘sold out’ and ‘No results found’, too. There was even a White Screen of Doom. I was on the phone with my Mom and then my Dad, volleying product numbers and styles back and forth until I said, ‘You know, it’s a good thing I’d get married in bare feet if I had to.’
‘You won’t,’ said Dad. ‘What you need is a pair of ruby slippers.’
That’ll be tomorrow’s search, then. Maybe Dorothy’s shoes will be Lorna’s shoes, too.
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