A girl, her shoes and a wedding

For my cousin’s wedding in Barbados, I needed to find a pair of silver shoes. Now, unless you have a true shoe fetish – or you’re a dancehall queen – how many people really need silver shoes?

Exactly.

So, I didn’t want to spend a whole lot of loot on a pair of silver shoes that I may only wear once, maybe twice. You guys know how much I like discount shopping, right? I went to Bata and got a pair of silver high heeled sandals for… guess.

Nope, lower than $20. Guess again…

No! Lower than $15. Guess again… OK, I’ll tell you.

I paid $11! Of course I bought them. Yes, the soles were a little hard, but for 11 bucks, how can you go wrong?

Well, I would find that out the day of the wedding.

I had never been in a wedding party, so I didn’t know what was expected of me. I was excited and I thought I just had to walk down the aisle, look cute and go to the reception where I would enjoy some Bajan delights.

Hmmph.

We got ready at Casuarina Beach Resort and I proceeded to stand around for the next two to three hours on the hard tile floor taking pictures. I would have taken the shoes off, but the dress was a bit confining, making it hard to bend over – if I didn’t want to burst one of the spaghetti straps.

Finally, we were done with the pictures and we headed off to the church. Another first in the Urban Sista’s life, I drove in a limousine. Sitting was problematic ‘cause of the spaghetti strap issue, but the dogs were happy to relax.

We finally made it to the church – zipping through the bumpy Bajan roads and we entered the St. Bartholomew’s Anglican Church looking fabu… but, as the bride and groom walked in and the minister started the ceremony, I wondered where my seat was.

I started to sweat.

My foot had gone from uncomfortable, to sore, to hurting, to excruciating pain. I tried to hop inconspicuously from one foot to the other to alleviate some of the pain, but, guy, that didn’t work.

Still, no announcement for the bridal party to sit.

And if it wasn’t bad enough that my feet were yammin’ off, it was hot. Now, I’m not like the tourist who will go to a Caribbean island and say, “oh my gosh, Marty, it’s so hot!” I understand that it’s going to be hot. That’s just the nature of the climate.

But, lawd, when the Bajans who live in Barbados are sweating buckets and saying, “Lawd’a’mercy, man, de sun boring a hole in de mole of muh head. Look, pass me that Banks, do. I goin’ long inside, ‘cause I gon’ ketch cold in all dat heat,” you know it's hot. It's hot until the mongoose don't want to venture outside. Hot until the Milo boils in the sunshine. Hot until the flying fish can fry themselves... you get it, it was so-and-so hot.

One of the bridesmaid – a born and bred Bajan – was getting light headed and sweating buckets like she lived in Iqaluit. It got so bad, she was begging me for a tissue to wipe her sweaty brow. The only thing I had available was one piece of ratty tissue that I had hidden in down the front of my dress -- because we couldn't walk with purses. I had to give the girl the ratty piece of damp tissue -- I was sweating all over it.

I just prayed that the videographer didn't pick that up in the wedding video.

And, although I was suffering in beautiful, but hot as heck, dress – it had three layers and it gave me heat rash for days -- and my feet were being destroyed in cheap and beautiful, but deceptively evil, shoes, I was made to stand for the entire 45 minute long ceremony on the hard tiled floor in this centuries old Anglican church.

Finally, my cousin became a wife and her fiancé became a husband and we were all gleeful and Urban Sista praised God because I was going to be able to sit down – after another 30 minutes or talking, grinning, and happiness – in a car. But, we had to go back to the resort to take pictures because we were running late getting to the church.

Tears of misery ran down my face… not really, but I was miserable. I contemplated taking the damned shoes off and walking barefoot along the paths at the resort, but my sister was throwing me nasty looks. To make matters worse, the gold-toothed janitor decided to try his luck with me – I guess the misery in my face looked like desperation to this brother.

“Bwoy, yuh look real sweet in dat dey dress,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said in my very Canadian accent.

“So, yuh married?”

“No.”

“Bwoy, yuh ain’ married? Chupse. I’se goin’ ta marry you.”

Like hell, buddy.

Tings ain’ dat brown in Canada – don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Bajan men, but I attract the gold-tooth wearing, ‘Boysie, you mussie got ‘nuff money in Canada’ types.

I couldn’t see my feet in the floor length gown, but I thought I was leaving behind a trail of blood. There was no way my feet could be that sore and not be bleeding. And the blood would have been mixed with sweat, 'cause there were torrents of water running down my legs from the heavy dress.

Finally, at around six-thirty that evening, we got to the reception hall and I could take my seat at the head table.

And, of course, you know what I did.

I whipped off them shoes and hiked up my dress. Boy, the feeling of sweet relief when the cool sea breeze floated up my skirt. I nearly cried from joy to have those two torture devices off my dogs.

The rest of the night was fun. I got to remain seated for a couple of hours. I danced a jig with my dad -- on the sore feet, but you can't ignore a chance to get down with Pops, he doesn't get down very often.

At around midnight, I got to put my flip flops back on and headed back to St. Philip to rest my tired, sore feet.

The morals of this long tale?

Being a bridesmaid is a lot of darned work. I had a great time and I would do it again, but no one told me it wasn’t just grinning and looking cute. And no one said, Urban Sista, buy a pair of proper shoes.

Bajan dudes come up with the best pick up lines. When someone thanks your father for creating you, you gotta give the man props.

Last but not least... Don’t buy cheap shoes if you’re in a wedding party. That’s just pain looking to happen – even if they are silver, invest in a pair of comfortable shoes and, you never know, you may wear them again.

I must say, I’ve worn the evil silver shoes since. To another wedding where I wasn’t part of the wedding party. They still hurt. I was still miserable and it served me right.

Eleven dollars just isn’t enough money for proper shoes.