Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

If the Dress Fits…

I may be a bit tangled in the layers of Cinderella’s ball gown, but I think every bride-to-be wants to feel as though finding her wedding dress is like sliding on the glass slipper. A perfect fit in every way. Destined. Meant to be.

For those of you new to the Archives, I am getting married this November (surprise proposal story here). This love affair with the Bohemian has been rather unconventional, our decision to wed, untraditional. So it makes sense that our wedding would be a bit outside the gift-wrapped box, as well.

A simple celebration, full of love, with a small group of close friends and family is our vision. But it seems even the most modest of affairs can quickly turn complicated. Or at least involve some planning.

Being that it’s often hard to find time just to file my fingernails, wedding prep’s been taking a back burner. Most recently, we’ve opted to take a pause on the nuptial project, get through the summer and resume most planning in August (which the calendar says begins today).

But one wisping constant in the wedding realm has not subsided. It’s floated, veil-like, around me, coaxing with fairytale promises, cajoling the ultimate quest. Yes, it’s the search of every bride-to-be. Looking for The Dress.

It started in March when we found ourselves, ever-so-briefly, in Los Angeles. My best girlfriend and I left the Bohemian in downtown Santa Monica, while she and I hit the freeways. We wanted to cover our bases. We shopped specialized bridal boutiques where I tried on poofy layers of tulle, satin ruffles and beaded bodices. Cinderella’s fairy godmother shopped there!

We went to a funky warehouse of second-hand vintage clothes, where there was no fitting room, just a chair and a mirror, where I slipped into a Gunne Sax dress from the seventies. We shopped Nordstroms’s evening gowns and sampled Betsy Johnson couture. We drove into to a Spanish-speaking district packed tight with retail shops. Hidden beside the storefront window where Quincenera gowns sparkled in fuchsia fluff, and cheesy pop music pumped stale love songs into the street, was the discount bridal spot. Its no-nonsense shop-keeper zipped me in and out of about 15 bridal dresses, remaining unphased when I didn’t warm to a single one of them.

As the sun set, we reunited with the Bohemian who had in his possession, one single, simple bag. Within in it, a sharp pair of neatly folded, cream-colored, Armani pants and a stylish white shirt.

“Where’s your dress?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. As if he thought that one could just go shopping in a single day and instantly return with The Dress.

Did he not understand that there was a search afoot? Things of this import, well, they took time…and effort.

But the Bohemian is a simple man who often defies convention. So he modeled his easy finds for us, and we agreed – he had done well. And done it in a single day. Handsome as ever, in his wedding clothes. His search was over.

Mine had just begun. But it made me wonder. Was this all in my mind? Was my quest for the perfect dress only has complicated as I made it?

In the proceeding four months, woven between dinner dishes, laundry loads and Jeb’s summer vacation schedule shuffles, there’s been my persistent attempts at bridal online shopping.

The Bohemian, he shakes his head with a smile, “Another one?” as multiple boxes arrive.

I’ve done Saks Fifth Avenue, J. Crew, Bloomingdales and Neiman Marcus. One by one, ever-hopeful, I have unwrapped tissued packages and zipped myself into their contents. Almost always too big, or simply unflattering, every dress has gone right back on the hanger, as I’m left to read the small print of return instructions, adhere appropriate labels and ship back.

Though I hadn’t given up, I took a break. I knew the clock was ticking (more Cinderella-esque pressure of time) but I needed a pause. Until one day I was feeling rather casual. Almost no expectation. And I simply navigated to a website and noticed that there was this one dress. Maybe. On sale for half off. Only one left and it was in a size 2. Most likely too small (previous dresses had been an 8, a 6 and a 4 – hadn’t tried a 2!) I added it to my virtual cart and clicked to purchase.

And then I left my house. Went on retreat to a remote locale and was reminded – yet again – of how little one really needs. In the midst of our sparse campsite, I reflected on the three tubes of toothpaste in the bathroom back at home and shuddered at the clutter. I did a virtual gutting of our household cupboards. Vowed to simplify our lives even more as soon as I got home.

Later that afternoon, a setting sun with the Bohemian. We sat together surrounded by a mountain panoramic. We were misted by rain in golden light, an arc of rainbow close enough we saw it touch the earth. I fell in love all over again. Knew ever-sure, this was the man I wanted to be with the rest of my life.

The fairy tales, they detail the quest for destiny. You know, kissing all the frogs until the prince is found. Or how Cinderella’s evil step sisters try wedging their swollen feet into the glass slipper, to no avail.

It’s not right, until it’s right. And when it’s meant to be, it is. Or something like that.

And that size 2 dress was waiting for me at the door when I got home. And when I put it on, it fit. It’s simple, beautiful. And yes, I love it.

That quest, I am so pleased to say, complete.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

The Boots

About six years ago, my good friend gifted me a fantastic pair of boots. Solid in dark brown leather, they zipped up to my ankles, keeping my feet dry in the wettest time of year on Kauai and warm during my annual winter trip to California.  These were Doc Martens, the brand of the long-standing European shoe manufacturer known for a signature look and their substantial footwear.

courtesy of Doc Marten's

The thing that was unique about these boots was that they didn’t look like Doc Martens.  The round toe and high, thick rubber sole so commonly associated with their style had been replaced by a streamlined shoe that looked more like a moccasin than industrial footwear.  Where typical Docs could easily handle the weight of a 200 pound man all day in the warehouse, this version looked more like they were ready to go skipping through Sherwood Forest with a quiver of arrows.  Still solid in their design, they just looked softer.  They were perfect,  except for the fact that they were ankle boots.

Really, they’re an ideal height for tropical living and the few weeks a year that this climate supports them being worn at all.  But it’s the knee-high version (which I discovered did exist) that would be ideal for riding side-saddle through ancient trees or scaling mountain paths in search of the Holy Grail (or at least some good writing material).

There’s just something about a pair of boots that go all way up to your knees.  You’re covered, snug, secure.  Footsteps feel even more grounded.  You’re wearing boots.  Now anything is possible on this path.

The last time I had a pair of knee highs was when I was seven years old.  They were in style then (just as they have reappeared in fashion as of late) and I loved them so much I would tuck my jeans inside so as to showcase them in all their vinyl glory.  I still can recall coming out of Yamaha piano lessons with my mom.  It was night and we were walking back to the car in the parking lot and I was wearing boots.  In that moment, I felt like anything was possible – I felt strong – my feet were solid on the ground.  I felt my little seven-year old self touch some kind of power that was beyond seven years.  Of course it wasn’t sourced in my Payless Shoe Store boots.  But they were reminding me with every step about something within.  Something that I was just in the early stages of sensing.

Since I was gifted those ankle boots six years ago, together, we have seen some miles.  We’ve danced on sticky bar room floors, climbed to mountain vistas and walked city streets.  I know I’ve fallen in love at least twice in those things.  Recently the sole began to give way and separate from the leather.  I’ve thought about the old-school shoe repair guy in Lihue where I could find out if they could be fixed.  But I’ve never let go of the idea of the knee-high version.  Thirty years after that parking lot moment in my boots, isn’t it time I got a new pair?

It was about six months ago that I decided to make my investment.  Fueled by this vision of myself wandering through Europe, I could vividly see my steps meandering in these boots.  I thought that if I bought the boots, the vision would be fueled.  Step one (pardon the pun) towards bringing my fantasy into the physical.  I thought it would be simple to go online and buy them but the search was futile.  Over the course of a few weeks, I would periodically resume my search, finding many stores that offered them but not in my size.

Even the Doc Marten company did not have the boot available.  The only place I could find the style and size was at their European location, which meant a huge cost in shipping that I just couldn’t bear to pay.  It seemed my knee-high boot dream would remain an elusive symbol,  the time not yet right to set foot on my travel path.  I resolved that if those boots ever did materialize, it would be a harbinger of coming one remote step closer to packing my bags and stepping on a plane.

I hadn’t thought about the boots in a while.  It was late afternoon on Easter Sunday and Jeb and I were digesting our meal, spending a little mellow time at home.  As I checked my emails an advertisement for boots came on the sidebar (they know their target audience, to be sure).  Just for fun, I checked again, fully expecting they would only have the typical odd sizes not fitted to my feet.  I found myself on Doc Marten’s website and within seconds there were the boots in UK5, Euro38, US7.  Those were my boots (and they came with free shipping).

courtesy of Doc Marten's

Ignoring all reason that these were not a seasonably wise purchase for my current locale (especially with summer coming on) I persevered and input my shipping information – these boots were 30 years in coming!  I could see us disembarking from the plane onto foreign soil as I typed.  All points had brought us to this moment and within two days, Doc Marten said they would be shipped right to my doorstep.  I’d figure out my archery practice later, this was the simple beginning…

With the ‘purchase’ button clicked and the confirmation email in my inbox, the rest is up to fate.  There is still the possibility they may not be all I’ve hoped for.  There’s that chance they just won’t fit.  Either way, most likely, you dear reader, will hear all about it.  Until then, my boots and I are walking through rocky seaside villages and pausing to lean against thick-barked tree trunks.  If only in my mind.