Never Walked In High Heels

Two days later I had managed to scrape myself off the bathroom floor and get some work done, but as soon as my roommate left I collasped into a mess. Finally I took the dress out of my closet and shoved it fiercely into the plastic bag it came in.

I began to think I was completely out of line for asking my friend to dress in formal wear. My judgment waved between being furious and opening the phone to call him back.

“I think I may have my first broken heart,” I told a friend while explaining the situation. She wanted to know who the seventh rejection came from and I told her.

“Well, of course he refused to wear a tuxedo, he’s proper British isn’t he? Look, it’s got nothing to do with you, that’s the first thing you need to get through your head. I promise, it isn’t because you’re disabled or any stupid reason. Well, if you ask me it is a stupid reason but that’s just because he’s English.” My friend who was, of course half French, did her best to make a madwoman see reason. For some of our friends, wearing a tuxedo can be a declaration of class rather than the starting point for an evening out.

In England, the fairy tales require more magic. For many, putting on a tux is an action for men of the upper classes, never something for an average Joe to put on. And to do so, for some, is to be seen as not only attempting to rise above your station, but also commit treason towards the class you came from. I never imagined it was a bold statement for certain friends to even consider going to a black tie affair let alone dress for it. So many farm girls all across America went to prom, even if it meant buying a dress at a Goodwill store. And they were still puffy and pink, the stuff it took to become a princess for one night. Immediately I wondered if little girls played dress up there. Did they get to have tea parties with other princesses, or were the only items in their play boxes indicative of  more practical lifetime occupations?

That night I called my friend Ché. His parents named him after Ché Guevera and his politics became even more proletariat from there. If anyone hated the bourgeoisie uniform of the tuxedo it would be him. I hoped he could make me more sympathetic towards the toiling masses.

“If someone asked you to a black tie event, would you be willing to wear a tux?”

“They’re a little itchy, but sure, of course I would.” This was not the answer I was expecting from a man named Ché.

“You would?”

“It’d be rude not to meet the dress code. Why? Where are we going that we need to get so dressed up for?”

“Would you go with me to-“

“Absolutely,” he said before I could finish the question.

It took a man who loathed the class system and economic inequality to remain unrestricted by it. Seven days later he was waiting for me as I got off the train in the red evening gown, his dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and his tux suiting him perfectly. Putting aside his politics to help me for an evening made him more of a gentleman than I ever dreamed of having. On our way inside I could not help but smile. Sometimes, if you put a black tie on a red commie he can behave with more class than any blue blood.

The preceding is an essay from Athena’s new book The Perfect Sole due out this winter.