Never Walked In High Heels

When it comes to attending your first black tie dinner, class warfare shouldn’t be an issue.

Perhaps I should back up… a lot.

In high school I went solo to one dance, and swore I would never do that again. An upper middle class suburban high school had somewhat different ideas of what constituted a formal dance than the typical television portrayal, and inclusiveness was not a favorable trait. And I wasn’t your high school boyfriend type. I didn’t have pompoms or glitter eye shadow. I had on a three piece suit, a leather briefcase, and by junior year I had read cover to cover The Norton Anthology of Literature—both the American and British volumes.

So, needless to say, I was never asked out to any of the school dances. And I was fine with this. Or so I thought. By the end of college, after trading in the lawyer for a teacher and then the teacher for a thespian, I still had not found any time to attend a formal, as they always seemed to fall on the final week of rehearsals before a production. And once again I was satisfied with my time management skills.

The problem is with being a woman in a wheelchair, is that sooner or later those quiet Friday nights begin to add up. And you begin to wonder if the reason why boys don’t come knocking is because there is something, quite literally wrong with you. But, doing my best not to dwell on anything, my life went on, taking me to London.

Within a year working as an independent access consultant in London a client asked me to sit at their table at an awards banquet. The event was to be black tie only. Almost instantly all guards against fairytale nights and big poofy skirts were demolished. Before I could even get the words out to accept the invitation I had visions bathed in pink, satin, lace, and tulle capable of nauseating every sugarplum fairy in existence.

When I noticed the invitation said “plus one,” I searched the little black book for possible candidates. Whoever he was (because I was bringing a date and therefore he had to be male), had to be a good feeder. I didn’t want to worry about anything being spilled on my dress. And so, I found my perfect match, called him up, asked him out, he accepted. Done. Now I could move onto the really important bits, like picking out a dress.

Two weeks before the dinner my date discovers some unexpected good news which causes him to have to cancel.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” I told him half jokingly. “I’m friends with loads of starving artists. Surely I can find someone who wants a free steak and lobster dinner.” I returned to my black book, left a few messages, and went back to looking for a pair of shoes to fit the ordeal. Given that I never actually had to walk the entire night, my footwear options were limitless.