Pink Shoes

Our 30th anniversary celebration last Sunday night was a resounding success. All the minute details finally came together, thanks to good friends with loving hands and willing hearts--not to mention expertise with social situations like anniversary parties, a matter on which I was entirely clueless. The church building was decked out as for a wedding. Patrick and I, dressed to the nines (which in P's case meant a new vest) walked the aisle and said our vows again. It was all very sweet. We even had some friends sing the same processional we had at our original wedding, an original based on the Song of Solomon. We joked a bit during the ceremony; P forgot what hand to extend as we exchanged new rings (I finally got diamonds after 30 years!); the pastor's remarks on the meaning of covenant were profound. I never felt so loved and loving as when taking those vows with eyes wide open.

And yet the whole time my feet were screaming inside my high heeled pink satin Mary Jane shoes, the ones that wowed our daughter when I, in fear and trembling, brought them home from the mall. They were perfect with my dress, just stunning for the occasion. They looked like I'd raided Grace Kelly's closet. They made my feet look smaller (always a plus). I was ladylike and elegant in them, and in so much pain I could hardly stand. In fact, I *wasn't* standing. The audience likely thought, "Oh, how touching! Look how she holds onto him after all these years!" when the truth was, I was discreetly leaning on each foot to give the other a momentary break, and clutching my husband to keep from losing my balance.

Then the ceremony was over. We proceeded to the rear of the building and I thought, "R-e-l-i-e-f!" Yet I'd momentarily forgotten we needed to form a receiving line to greet our guests as they made their way back for punch, cake, and Death by Chocolate. So it was 15 more minutes of agony in the pink shoes, before I could kneel on a chair and take the load off. As soon as I could, I ran back to the nursery/dressing room and replaced Grace Kelly with Janeane Garofalo (my little black flats). Once home, the precious satin heels were bagged to go in storage or on Freecycle, I haven't decided yet.

The evening was a memory for a lifetime, one 30 years in the making. The guy I married again is my lover, protector, provider, and best friend. I would follow him anywhere--and have. He's worth waiting for, struggling with. He's even worth wearing the pink shoes for.