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.

Meanwhile my escort options were quickly waning.

With ten days to go I was calling every male between the ages of eighteen and forty five that I knew in between kicking myself for ever getting my hopes up about a date. I don’t know why, but the promises a young woman makes to herself are often the most deadening and unhealthy resolutions ever created. And in those moments of asking every conceivable man I knew out on a date, I promised myself that I would never again be taken in such foolishly romantic ideas of silk gowns and wonderful evenings again. It was obviously not where I belonged.

The problem was not actually me, or so I found. I would call up a friend and explain the situation and he would be eager to go. Then I would mention the dress code and everything would begin to fall apart.

“But don’t worry, the company is so eager for me to go escorted that they are willing to pay for a tuxedo rental.”

“A tux?”

“Yeah, so you get a first class dinner and you won’t have to pay a thing.”

“But I have to wear a tux?”

And thus the conversation turned into him having to check his calendar or him suddenly remembering an appointment. The seventh guy finally was openly resentful about it.

“I’ll go, but I’m wearing a suit. Don’t expect me to show up in a tux.”

“I’m going to be in an evening gown, so you’ll look absurd in a suit.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m not wearing one of those.”

A few hours after the conversation I called him back up, leaving a firm but nerve wracking voicemail.

“Hi, its me. I’ve been thinking about it and, well, if you don’t want to wear a tux… I think I’d rather go with someone who respects me enough to wear one when it says ‘black tie only.’ I really don’t want to bring the only guy not up to dress code. So I don’t know who I’ll go with but… yeah, thanks for the offer.”

And then went in to my  tiled bathroom and collapsed, heaving until I could no longer recognize the sounds of my own cries.

I couldn’t believe it. Was I so ineligible for an evening out that I couldn’t find a single one of my male friends to eat a dinner with me which was priced above their last paycheck? Was there some sort of price to pay for spending a seemingly free evening with me? Was I just not in anyone’s league? Insecurities about me, my romantic history, and future prospects kept me nailed to the bathroom floor. Worst of all, I had just turned down the only guy willing to go out with me.

The dress hung limply in my closet like a flower bud which had never bloomed. I had chosen something which was a deep red and not at all like the pink frosting I had always found myself envisioning. This I had found in a corset shop in Spitalfields Market. When I stepped out of the dressing room a man who was there with his wife, who said “I don’t know what you are looking for, but that dress is the one.” It was a deep red.

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.

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.