Red Shoes. People laugh when I tell them that I wore red shoes to my wedding. They weren’t hidden either. My from-India, 100% cotton skirt and top in spanking white, eyelet inset, sat atop legs browned by the Miami sun. Oh, how I loved those shoes!
They were peep-toed and strappy, with a small but stable heel. I was a hippie-girl, after all, and marriage, the idea and the reality of it, both scared and—if I’m honest— embarrassed me. Marriage, one man for the rest of my life? It didn’t seem likely. I was 33 after all.
I don’t remember buying them, that’s the thing about clothing memory-markers some of the story eludes me, but I can imagine my joy in finding them. I loved how unabashedly red they were, like standing in a field of poppies. I know now, as my husband and I arrive at 35 years together in May, that his absolute acceptance of me, red shoes and all, speaks to how lucky I am.
(Thanks to wordjourneysite)