The Island Shoe Girl's Blog

These Steve Madden shoes were made for walking away with your head held high. Photo by Jean Thornton

Dating can be hard; dating on an island can be a nightmare. So accepting a set-up by friends can be as frightening as a Jaclyn Smith outfit at Kmart. As I walked to the waterfront bar where the meeting was to occur, I passed a guy. I had a brief thought of “damn why can’t that be him.” My cell phone rang seconds later and it WAS the pass-by arranging our meeting spot. He was charming, funny and had a great crooked smile that was like seeing a new pair Michael Kors’ boots. He had seemed a little “too good on paper” and I considered this our first and last meeting. I was shocked when he asked me to dinner the next night and followed through. How could a serious businessman be interested in a social worker in Betsy Johnson wedges?

But that is the way life goes and the next thing you know, this shoe girl was meeting his friends and inviting him to her regular bar. He sent cute text messages, complimented my shoes, and even offered to watch Sex and the City the Movie. To add to his appeal, he told me that he never wanted to get married, which was good news to me because I canceled my mandatory subscription to Bride Magazine years ago. I helped him buy new sheets, watched football and wore the smallest swimsuit I owned in a very cold hot tub. For the first time in a long time I actually liked the little thing that had started. I don’t date anyone. I don’t like to share the sofa. I don’t like feeling the obligation to call or text at the end of the night. Yet, I was doing it. Looking back, I disgust myself and can only blame me for going against my normal avoidance of these things.

Maybe if I had not been distracted by the office and shopping I would have kept my guard up and not ended up on the receiving end of one the most insulting and strangest breakup scenes. After a romantic dinner at a small restaurant we held hands as we walked back to his house. He then handed over a bag containing a beautiful pair of Dolce Vita’s I had been drooling over and which I had shown him only 48 hours before. He totally messed up the size but in my giddiness and the mental planning of how I would sleep in them that night I did not even care. Giving me shoes is pretty much the equivalent of giving me GHB; I am putty in your hands. It was a like a lost scene from Pretty Woman.

I was too high on the pedestal to see what was coming next. It’s been real, it’s been fun, please show yourself to the door. Timber! Move aside—girl in brand new heels falling flat on her face. He actually used the phrase ‘soul mate’, as in how we were NOT soul mates. What? This was a soul mate thing? The only soul mate talk I like refers to the kind of sole mates that have matching Prada stamps on them. And how can he possibly know if I am any kind of mate considering I took more time picking out shoes for my brother’s wedding than dating him! He then threw a dirty one at me, “You’re the kind of girl you marry.” Sucker Punch. Pulling together the best do-not-slap-him or cry-in-front-of-him moment in history, I made the hurt-filled walk out of his house, leaving the shoes. (Hold on! I will explain this in moment.)

In the time since, I have tried to figure out where my casual fling went wrong and why does it bother me so much. I never parked my shoes in his closet, as I am a firm believer in keeping my stuff in my space and his stuff in his space. He initiated a lot of the relationship milestones and shared about his divorce without any prying from me. I was honest with him that I was unable to see wedding bells in my future. I may be the only female in the world over the age of 8 who does not plan and re-plan a mental wedding. I like being single and have no plans to walk down any aisle except the shoe aisle.

As I ease the pain and confusion in my usual manner of shopping, shopping, and more shopping, my record-breaking three designer handbags in one month has not made me forget his name or other things. I cannot help but wonder if the time I spent with him was the real him or was that last night the real him. Somehow the guy I dated for weeks seemed to disappear in a moment somewhere between putting shoes on and taking them off; a new guy sat in his place—and he seemed to have no clue who I was.

I am a card-carrying member of the Commitment Fearful Women of America Club. I have a re-occurring nightmare where I am at my wedding reception and when asked “how excited I am” I say I think I made a big mistake. I just do not have the bride gene. That gene has been replaced with the double shoe gene. It’s a very rare condition, watch for a journal article someday on this.

So why did “my let’s just take it slow and watch where it goes” attitude get misread as a mail order bride in hiding? Is it really that hard for men to believe that there might be women out there who only want to date them and not set a wedding date? Am I that big of a freak of nature that it cannot be comprehended that I am not waiting for a rescue by Prince Charming but instead prefer to pay my own way in life. In the big picture of life does every diamond ring have to be on the left hand or can my right hand be a symbol that I am happy simply being someone’s partner not his everything. Just because I have ovaries does not mean I have a biological clock ticking- who said a kid would go with any of those 3 new bags!

As I replay that night in my head, there are some things I could have said or done differently. I am not sure it would make a difference. If the guy who ventured shoe shopping for me can, less than 24 hours later, decide I am not worth his company, I am not sure he can explain how it ended as it did. I wrestle with the idea that he was all an act, some sort of dating mirage or that he lost his mind somewhere in that shoe box. Regardless, it’s done and those shoes may still very well be sitting in his closet as a silent memorial to this Island Shoe Girl.

I have since thought of a few other places I could have put them that make me smile a little. As much as I loved those shoes for that brief moment I had them on, that is all it was and to keep them would have be an insult to the woman I am. As much as I may have liked him for those brief weeks, that appears to be all it was. If he cannot see the ‘me’ that I see, then I am better off without him… and the shoes.