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Head over Heels      

Finding the shoes I wanted was proving mission impossible

IN

the grand scheme of a wedding, a pair of shoes isn’t really that big of a deal. Except it was.

My sister was getting married, and we were consumed with preparations for the big night. We debated the merits of various venues, considered and discarded one gown style after another, and drafted endless lists.

Hands down, the most drawn-out and time-consuming part of the prep, at least for me, was the shoes. Long after we’d checked off gowns, hair, and makeup, I was still running from store to store, browsing site after site, trying in vain to find the perfect shoes for the wedding.

Blame it on my gown color (somewhere between cream and beige), blame it on my shoe size (7, the size that’s chronically sold out), blame it on shipping (why not?), but finding the shoes I wanted was proving mission impossible.

Everything I saw was either too white or too beige, the heel was too high or too low, the fit too narrow or too wide — or I simply didn’t like the style. And so, the exhausting search went on. And on.

Finally, finally, after I’d spent an illegal number of hours perusing the shelves, when I was sure I’d seen every last piece of footwear ever crafted by mankind and was just about ready to give up, I found that elusive pair. The shoes were just right. Right shade, right height, right fit, right look. Perfection in a box.

The wedding day arrived, the kallah looked dreamy, and the early hours of the day went off without a hitch. We were all set for a beautiful night.

Until, an hour in, the heel on my right shoe snapped clear off. One second I was blissfully strolling the hall, the next I was struggling to regain my balance after my foot unexpectedly dropped two inches.

Startled bewilderment gave way to utter horror as reality sank in. There I was, at my sister’s wedding, perfect gown, perfect makeup, minutes to the chuppah… and no shoes.

I hobbled around the hall, frantically calling anybody and everybody who could possibly own a light-colored pair of shoes in my size. But dead end followed dead end. The chuppah loomed, and my desperation mounted. Then, finally, a family friend came through, rushing over with a pair of shoes. Weak with relief, I took the treasure from her hands.

The color was a few shades off. The heel was too low. The style was unlike anything I would have chosen.

The fit was perfect.

In my immense relief at having found shoes — whole, wearable, serviceable shoes — the fit was all that mattered. I dubiously studied my reflection for a minute, and then, as the music heralded the chassan’s arrival, promptly forgot all about my footwear.

I laughed and cried and danced the night away, utterly oblivious to the shoes on my feet. It was only at the very end, when I changed into blessed, blessed flats, that I noticed the shoes again. Solid, functional, wonderful shoes that had saved the day. In the wrong color, style, and height. Which, I realized, hadn’t mattered all that much.

And then I learned that the petty little details really don’t matter, and I quit stressing about shoes and the like.

Nope, I didn’t.

I don’t even want to.

I want to be able to stress about shoes. And overbaked cookies and endless cloudy days and slow computers and tissues in the laundry. I want the petty little details to matter. Because when they don’t, it’s usually because something is broken.

So I bemoan the cookies and sigh about the weather and grumble about the computer and shake my head in exasperation over the laundry.

But maybe, here and there, I’ll remember a broken heel, a time when the details ceased to matter. And I’ll celebrate the fact that I can bemoan, sigh, and grumble about the petty little details. Because that only happens when the shoe is whole.

 

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 816)

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