The wedding shoes

So I have this friend. She's about my height and she's my shoe size and we're partners in crime. Our birthdays are close together, so we often celebrate jointly (with bowling or mini golf or dancing). And we often play poker together or hang out on a Saturday. And we go dancing. We're kind of close.

So when she got engaged this spring, one friend assumed she and I had had a falling out that I wasn't one of the bridesmaids. But I knew better, because sometimes you're such good friends with someone that you don't make the bridesmaid list. Know what I mean? She knew that I wouldn't pitch a fit and wouldn't think it meant she didn't value my friendship, etc., so she knew she could focus on sisters and college friends, etc., without worrying that I would take it personally. And she knew I would prefer to pick out my own dress in my own color, anyway.

But when you're a bride and I'm one of your closest friends, there is one job that absolutely no one else can handle. Do you know what that job is? Can you guess? It's picking out the wedding shoes.  I am who you go to when you need to pick out shoes. I'm kind of known for my shoes. So with this friend, that is the official part I played in the wedding. And we picked out a fabulous pair of shoes. Pretty and sparkly and special. Did I mention that she and I wear the same size shoes?

Even as we were picking out her wedding shoes, I was eyeing them. Salivating, even. We both understood that at some point (after the wedding, of course), I would get to wear them. But I didn't really know if I would just get to borrow them or if she would want them back. Then this week, she brought me the shoes. Just showed up at my office and gave me the box. So tonight I wore them to another friend's birthday evening. And I may never take them off again. Because they're pretty. And sparkly. And oh so special.

We both know that she's not likely to wear them again. Though we're the same height, everyone thinks she's shorter than I am because I always wear heels and she always wears flats. These shoes have at least a 3 inch heel. I'm known for my shoes; she's not. When she's needed dress shoes in the past, she's borrowed them from me. These shoes look like shoes I would own; they look like shoes she would borrow from me. I have dreamed of these shoes since the day she and I picked them out this spring. And now that I have had them on my feet, seen my calves in these heels, seen the sparkle under the soft light of the Star Bar, I know that these shoes belong to me. They may have been on her feet for the most important day of her life, but they belong on mine for every other day.

She can't want the shoes back, can she? I get to keep them, don't I? I mean, she can visit them any time she wants. She can wear them, even. But she can't make me give them back for good. Because they're so pretty and sparkly and special. And while she might wear them on the most special day of her life, I will consider every Friday special because I will wear them.

At the very least, we have to have some kind of joint legal custody agreement where we both get to wear the shoes. But I get primary residential custody. Please?