Charleston and Kiawah Travel Guide, Pt I.

Well HELLO! 

Didja miss me? 

I missed you!

It feels like it's been much longer than a week and also much less than a week since I've written. Let me fill you in! 

Last Christmas, my parents gave us kids a trip as our big gift. My dad planned a week long trip starting in Asheville, then moving on to Charleston, heading to Kiawah Island, and then back to Asheville. We spent about two days in each place. It was easily one of the best trips I've ever taken - not only because the scenery, accommodations, and food were MIND-BLOWLINGLY GOOD, but because my whole family was present. Laughing with my family is one of the greatest things there is. 

So - let's kick things off when our trip began in Asheville: 

MONDAY: 

• My mom and Parker's girlfriend, Emily, came to a Pure Barre class that I taught! So fun to have everyone there. 
• We met up with the guys and went to Mayfel's in downtown Asheville.

• After breakfast, we loaded up in the giant SUV my dad rented to accommodate all six of us (plus Tom Hanks, in this case) and drove to Max Patch, where it was THE MOST PERFECT DAY. 

• Though we probably should've taken naps, we came home, had a cocktail, rallied, and got ready for our fantastic dinner at Limone's. I wish I had pictures, but, tragically, I do not. Just imagine it. 

TUESDAY. 

• The next morning, we piled into the SUV and headed to Charleston. Arrived at our beautiful hotel, Zero George. If you have plans to visit Charleston anytime soon, I cannot recommend this hotel enough. It is the most charming place - everything about it is lovely. The hotel itself is beautiful - eye candy around every corner - the rooms are spacious and cozy, and the staff is incredibly attentive. I really can't say enough about it - it's a "can't miss" and is hands-down my favorite hotel of all time. 

• We traipsed around Charleston for a bit - visited Battery Park, looked at the historic homes - came back, the girls put on our robes and enjoyed our champagne and cheese boards, courtesy of the hotel. I mean...are ya kiddin' me? I was basically pretending I was Beyonce at this point. 

• Quickly dressed for dinner at Le Farfalle. Don't have any pictures from here, either, but this is a newer restaurant in Charleston (has only been open 9 weeks). It's a great, romantic setting - house-made pasta. Jordan had a squid ink dish, and I had the housemade spaghetti in butter sauce, pictured below. Both were delish. (Thanks to their website for these pics!)

• We capped the evening with cocktails on the rooftop of The Restoration Hotel. So delicious and great service. I continued drinking my new favorite - grapefruit juice, Tito's, St. Germaine, and a splash of soda. To my immense disappointment, this drink already exists and is called a Greyhound. I'm still going to pretend I made it up. 
• Arrived back at the hotel to discover turn-down service and chocolates had been deposited in our room as a late-night treat. 

WEDNESDAY.

• Enjoyed a completely picturesque breakfast at the hotel. Zero George has lovely indoor and outdoor seating along with a breakfast that makes you feel like you've been teleported to France. I'm telling you, everything about this hotel is just drool-worthy. 

• The kids decided we were up for a bike ride, so we rented bikes from the hotel and cruised around the city for about an hour. 

• Had lunch at Chez Nous, a teeny tiny restaurant in Charleston that you can totally miss if you aren't looking for it. One of the best meals I've ever eaten, and I think everyone would agree. The restaurant itself is a tiny space, well-decorated and beautifully lit, and the (handwritten) menu is traditional French cuisine. The chefs create two options per course, so the quality is just out of this world. 

• We basically staggered out, woozy with total delight, and tried to window shop. Ended up waving the white flag and returning the hotel for pre-dinner naps. 
• I have no pictures of dinner - suffice it to say it was delicious. 
• For dessert, we headed to Peninsula Grill (a famous and very old-school Charleston restaurant) for their iconic coconut cake. We had a slice for every two people - the girls drank champagne, the guys drank cognac, and we tried to act like adults but were really giddy and giggly. Dad had to keep us in line as we grew louder and louder. 
• We came back to the hotel and played what has become a staple of family game night - a game I'd like to tell you about right now: 

1. It's called Telephone Pictionary, and here's how you play. 
2. Start with a stack of small sheets of paper - there should be one sheet for every player in your group. 
3. On the top sheet of paper, you write a phrase. It can be anything - the more nonsensical, the better. For example, one of mine was, "Mom tries to wink" (we'd been trying to teach her how to wink on this trip to hilarious failure). 
4. You then pass your entire stack, not just the top sheet, to the person to your left -- the person to your right passes their entire stack to you.
5. The clock is set for one minute. You read the phrase on the top sheet, then move that sheet to the bottom of the pile. You then have one minute to draw a depiction of whatever that person's phrase was - in this case, Emily had to draw, "Mom tries to wink." You can't use words - only pictures. 
6. After a minute, the whole stack gets passed again -- only this time, the next person has to write a description of the drawing they received. 
7. And so on and so forth, until your stack makes it back to you. The best part is the end, where you get to reveal what you actually wrote and how convoluted and strange it got by the end. I can guarantee that you will die laughing every time. 

• Part II tomorrow - we head to Kiawah! 

Portrait of a Dog

Y'ALL. 

My excitement on this subject is hard to calibrate. I would put it somewhere between "I have an unlimited supply of mashed potatoes," and "Alison Krauss just called and wants to go on tour with me." 

I have the most spectacular portrait of Tom Hanks. 

But first, some background: 

When I was growing up in Decatur, I had one friend who stood out as unique right from the beginning. Emily Siek was the coolest, art-iest kid in town. In second grade, she designed our school t-shirt that everyone (including faculty members) wore to school events. She was always in art classes, always painting, always drawing. 

After high school, she broke out of the "everyone stays in Alabama to go to college" mold and went to Savannah College of Art and Design, which, if you aren't familiar, requires a prerequisite in BADASSERY. She graduated and, instead of moving home, moved to New York to continue her lifetime of awesomeness by working as a big deal store designer. She still creates beautiful work on the side.

Basically what I'm saying is that Emily is an incredible unicorn of talent and beauty with skin like a porcelain doll and a laugh like Tinkerbell. If she sounds too good to be true, that's because she is. AND her boyfriend is awesome, too. I mean, come on. 

Okay. Now you're all caught up. 

So a few months ago, I saw that Emily had done this painting of someone's dog:

Amazing, right? 

Which led to the following Facebook exchange: 

Which led to an e-mail thread in which I commissioned her to paint TH. 

I was not prepared for what was to come. I have known this person for nearly 27 years and I was STILL not prepared. 

I sent her a few pictures of TH to choose from, and she chose this one to paint: 

Yesterday, I got a package in the mail and knew immediately what it was. I, obviously, freaked out. 

We are SO FREAKIN' BLOWN AWAY. Please take a look. 

I texted Emily to tell her that because the proportions are so realistic, Tom Hanks has been sniffing at it and wagging his tail near it because he is so confused/thrilled by why this new animal in our house is two-dimensional. 

Are you dead?? I AM. How can someone capture the soul of a dog she's never met via paint and canvas?? I mean, there is literally no doubt about whose dog this is. This is Thomas G. Hanks. (I could tell you what the "G" stands for, but I'd have to kill you.) (Gary. It stands for Gary, okay?) It's just absolutely, knock-your-socks off incredible. 

To mitigate the flood of "How can I contact her??" requests, let me just go ahead and tell you! 

Visit emilysiek.com, or send her an e-mail at emilysiek@gmail.com to find out more about pricing and availability. She works in lost of mediums (pencil sketches, acrylic paintings, etc.) and with lots of subjects (people, animals, still life, etc.) - there's no limit to her talent. So proud to call her my friend. 

THANK YOU, EMILY! 

It's Not Nothing.

Up until about 6 PM yesterday, I hadn't actually seen the video of Donald Trump's comments to Billy Bush on the Access Hollywood bus. I'd only read the articles that pulled out his major talking points about how he can do whatever he wants with women because he's "a star," including that he would be allowed to "grab (women) by the pussy." 

(I typed that word out on purpose, because I think it's important to see it written out the way he said it. He didn't say it with an asterisk in place of the vowel. He said the whole word, out loud. I'm going to say it again later, so fair warning.)

But last night, I did see the video. It's a very different experience from reading the words in print. The major difference for me in watching the video vs. reading the article was that I got to actually see the woman in the purple dress - the woman who Trump and Bush were talking about. 

I don't want to talk any more about Donald Trump, aside from naming him as a player in this story. He is a disgusting person whose very presence in this race should make America hide its face. People die trying to obtain democracy in their respective countries -- we have it, and we've made it into a reality show this year. We should be ashamed of ourselves. 

But like I said -- enough about Trump.

I want to talk about the woman in the purple dress - Arianne Zucker. 

I don't know Zucker, and I can't speak for her. But I can imagine what I would've been thinking had I been in her shoes. 

I assume that she was there as a cast member of the soap opera that Trump was guest starring on. She was probably walking Trump and Bush into the facility and touring them around, so that Access Hollywood could do a spot on Trump's soap opera appearance.

Immediately upon meeting these guys, she shakes their hands and greets them. It doesn't take long for her to be prompted to hug Donald Trump, then to hug Billy Bush. 

The three of them begin walking into the studio, at which point Bush comments on Zucker's good looks. He follows up by insisting that Zucker answer the hypothetical of Which Man She'd Want To Date. She pleads the Fifth. At this point, Zucker has positioned herself between the two men and has taken their arms.  

If I had been Zucker, I don't know that I would've done any of that any differently. She's there to be a hostess, to create a package for a television show. Because of that, her personality needed to be dynamic, affable, charming. She delivered on all those counts. She even delivered in the face of two guys who literally did nothing but talk about her beauty and her availability to date them - who treated her as a beautiful accessory rather than a person. She was doing her job. She was being a professional. 

If I had been in her shoes, I would've been a little skeeved out by the way I'd been treated, but I also would've assumed that these guys were just being a bit too flirty for the sake of the cameras. I would have assumed that they, too, were trying to create an interesting package for Access Hollywood by trying to be funny and larger-than-life, even if it did mean that they were being inappropriate. 

If I'd assumed the best in them - that they were pouring it on thick for the sake of the TV audience - then I would've been able to leave that interaction a little grossed out, but unscathed. 

Imagine what it must have felt like for her to see these tapes. 

To hear a man pop Tic Tacs in case he spontaneously, and without consent, started kissing you. To hear someone who you'd treated with (relative) respect and professionalism talk about grabbing you by the pussy. 

I'm not her, and even a decade later, a feeling of disgust and alarm washes over me. The moment that those two men step off the bus, their tones change. They switch into "professional" (or at least, their best attempts at professional) mode. They leave behind their disgusting chatter and fake respect for Zucker, who had no way of knowing what was said about her mere seconds before. 

It is horrific. It is also something that happens every single day. 

Women deal with a lot of this. We are regularly objectified (in ways big and small, in ways we know and ways we don't) by the men in our lives. Many times, rather than speak up, we, too, remain dynamic, affable, and charming -- we keep our cool and choose not to rock the boat so that we can continue to go about our day. Because it's much easier to just "go with the flow;" if we spoke up at every instance of objectification, our days would be consumed with it. 

I am definitely a glass half full, rose colored glasses member of society. My impulse is to assume that people's motives are pure; that people's actions represent their true feelings. Of course, this isn't always the case. I know that. I'd just rather give people the benefit of the doubt. 

But watching a video like that one, as a woman, is terrifying to me. What that video proves is that there are men in the world - both men who are famous and men who are not - who degrade and dehumanize women behind closed doors, then feign respect for them in person. It shakes me to my core to know that men like this exist.

And it makes the concept of assuming the best in men who push the boundaries appropriateness not just naive, but dangerous. 

I've heard this behavior defended as "locker room talk." I've heard it dismissed. I've heard people say that those offended by it need to grow a thicker skin; that these men were just joking, that this is how men speak to each other. It's harmless. It's nothing. 

It's not nothing. 

Women, every day, are attempting to simply live our lives. We are stopping for gas. We are raising children. We are crossing the street. We are grocery shopping. We are leading business meetings. We are going for a run. And all the while, we have to stay mentally present - we have to consider a range of things, from "Why is he staring at my legs while I'm talking?" and "Should I address the person who just catcalled me?" to, "Should I go on a run with one headphone in and one headphone out in case someone is approaching me and I don't hear them?" and, "Did I leave my pepper spray in the car?" 

It is not safe to let down our guards unless we are with men we trust implicitly - our good friends, our brothers, our husbands, our fathers. And for some women - it chokes me up to write this - there is no safe place. 

I want to close by stating my point as clearly as I can: If you are a man, and your impulse is to defend or dismiss the comments that these men made (maybe because you've heard similar comments made by your friends or have made comments like those yourself), stop. Don't. 

We've all made mistakes and said things we shouldn't have. We're humans. We're flawed. 

But this? This is not a flaw we have time to entertain. This isn't something that you can take your time fixing. This is time-sensitive. You are making women feel unsafe. Worse, you are making it actually unsafe for us to interact with the world. You are making us fear for our PHYSICAL SAFETY by saying things like this. Can you imagine what that's like for us?? 

Men: feminism doesn't mean that you worship at the altar of Lena Dunham and that you've got a Hillary Clinton bumper sticker on your car. It doesn't make you a radical. It doesn't mean you are a flaming liberal communist. Feminism means that you believe that women should be treated, paid, and considered equally alongside men. It means that you know in your bones that women are as smart and as worthy as you are. It means that how women are treated is important to you - not because we are your wives, your daughters, your sisters, your girlfriends. No. Because we are on this planet as human beings. Because we are people. 

I haven't been objectified on national television like Arianne Zucker was; like Hillary Clinton has been. But I have been asked to a party - a party I was so flattered to get asked to - by a guy who I later found out bragged behind closed doors that he was only taking me because he thought I had a "nice ass." I have overheard someone suggest to my husband that I seemed like "a handful in the sack." I have been relentlessly catcalled and followed by cars driven by men.

And if you are a woman, I bet you have, too. 

If you are a man, find a woman in your life to talk to - not in passing, but in a real, meaningful way - about how this video made them feel. About instances in their lives when they've been made to feel unsafe by the fact that a man feels entitled to openly sexualize them. 

To close this with some hope, I'm including a text message that I got from my father last Friday. He sent it to me, my grandmother, my mom, his sister, and my brother's girlfriend, Emily. Let's use this horrible, viral video to start conversations about being better to each other.

My dad will start. 

Anxiety.

It's a pesky little concept. 

Anxiety is something I never really thought I struggled with. And, to be fair, I don't have a chronic anxiety problem. It isn't something for which I take medication or see a counselor (though man oh man do I believe in counseling and therapy!). But it is something I've learned more about recently, and I'll tell you why. 

First, let me share how anxiety creeps into my world.

Mine is a social anxiety. Sure, I experience other types from time to time - anxiety about work, about money, about big looming life decisions - but the majority of the time, my anxiety shows up in one of the following ways: 

• Inviting people over, then stressing to an absurd degree about my house (what it looks like, whether it's nice enough, hosting, etc.). 
• Tightness in my chest at the thought of an upcoming social gathering with people I don't know very well and whether people will like me.
• Playing a social interaction back in my head (sometimes over and over) and worrying whether that thing I said or did has made a person start spontaneously disliking me. 
• Knowing someone is upset with me and being slowly eaten alive by that information.

Have you been there? 

I know many of my friends struggle with anxiety in a more debilitating way: playing back the day's conversations long into the night, restless, unable to sleep until they know beyond a doubt that they didn't offend or upset anyone; that same tight-chestedness, but all the time and spanning from activity to activity; being so racked with doubt and fear that everyday decisions can seem overwhelming. 

Do you relate? 

I think anxiety, lots of times, is born out of being sensitive. And I don't mean "sensitive" as in, "get your feelings hurt easily." I mean truly sensitive - the definition of the word - a person who senses. If you're a person like me who senses the social balance in a room when you walk into it, or who senses when someone is upset before other people catch on, or who reads about tragedy in the world and feels like it has happened to you: that's sensitivity. And I think that's a great quality (though I'm admittedly a little biased). It makes for creative, loving, intuitive people. But it can also be a tinderbox for anxiety. 

This is where my friend Meredith comes in. 

There's a concept in carpentry (h/t Glennon Doyle Melton) called that really applies here. When the joists (the weight-bearing pieces of a building that preserve the structural integrity) get overloaded with bearing the weight of the building, carpenters go back in and add reinforcements. They add a board on either side of the joist, creating a stronger, more stable structure. The act of adding those extra boards is called "sistering." 

When I first heard this explained, a lightbulb went off in my head. I don't have any biological sisters (hey, Parker!); instead, I have a handful of girlfriends who are more like family. All throughout my life, when I've needed extra support - when the weight of my own world has become too heavy - I have looked to my left and to my right and found my sisters to help me bear the burden. 

In this particular case, at this particular juncture in my life, the concepts of sistering and dealing with anxiety fit like a hand in a glove. 

Meredith, one of my sisters, has taken her own winding and fascinating path to end up exactly where she is right now. She has done loads of research about anxiety and has dealt with it in very real ways herself. She's a certified yoga instructor and a pharmacist, so she's deeply familiar with the inner-workings of both the mind and the body. Meredith decided a few months ago that she was going to use the work she'd done to overcome her own anxiety toward helping others overcome theirs. Aside from just talking about anxiety, this program involves movement - actual yoga - to accompany the mantras and lessons you learn each session. I took Meredith's pilot program in February and noticed a tangible difference in the way I moved through the world: 

Suddenly, I felt lighter, more at peace, less mentally frantic. I wasn't re-tracing my conversational steps. I wasn't freaking out when people came over. I could separate my thoughts from my SELF - the deepest and truest part of me. I could be still. It was world-rocking and incredible. 

Since her course, there have been moments when I slip back into my old habits. When that happens, I have a list of mantras (provided by Meredith's coursework) that I return to to remind myself of what's important; of how to stay grounded. It has helped me enormously.

You can get more of an idea of what the course is like by visiting this link and listening to the free workshop Meredith put together to explain the program. Stick with it - if it sounds a little "rah-rah-cheerleader" for you at the beginning, just give it some time. I can guarantee that you'll learn something, be intrigued, and, if you decide to pursue the course, your life will be changed by this important and meaningful work. 

Because y'all - we have ONE LIFE. Who wants to live it tied up in knots about things beyond their control?? 

Life is hard. Anxiety is paralyzing. Sistering is important. So let me lend you one of mine. 

To learn more, click the photo above or visit meredithmcelroy.com. 

The Story of My Wedding Shoes

So the first thing you should know about me is that I'm a serious Sarah Jessica Parker fan. Yes, I'm a Sex And the City fan, too, but it runs deeper than that. My love affair with SJP began in high school when saw my first few episodes of SATC. The curly-haired, effortlessly stylish writer that she played on that show would serve to be one of the female characters I idolized growing up (more on that in another post). One of my most treasured Christmas gifts was a tiny diamond horseshoe necklace like the one she wears. I still have a giant costume flower that I pin on jackets and dresses every so often. 

Beyond Carrie, though, I love SJP herself. She is whip-smart, funny, classy to a fault. I love her blindly and always will.

My freshman year in college, the Sex and the City movie came out. My mom and I went to see it and it was every bit as fabulous as I thought it would be. One scene in particular stayed with me: 

Those shoes, people. 

They were so gorgeous and so unique. I loved them so much that when a friend of mine spotted them in a Saks in Chicago, she snapped a photo and sent it to me. That picture was the background photo of my Blackberry Pearl (anyone? anyone?) for two years. 

My between my sophomore and junior years, I studied abroad in England at Oxford University. One of the weekend trips I'd scheduled was for me and two girlfriends - just a day trip into London. We would arrive, shop, eat, see Les Miserables (my all-time favorite Broadway show) and then come back. 

Little did I know.

The girls, Alexis and Elizabeth, had seen the background photo on my phone and had recognized the shoes immediately. 

"I wonder if there's a Manolo store here," Elizabeth asked.

I hadn't even thought of this possibility and grabbed my phone to Google. 

There was. It was a stand-alone Manolo Blahnik store - not inside a mall, but a real-deal, floor-to-ceiling Manolo store. We all squealed. 

"Call and see if they have your shoes!!" 

I frantically clicked the number listed underneath the address I'd found online and waited. 

"Manolo Blahnik, how can we help?" 

"Um, hi!" I was painfully Southern and PAINFULLY uncool, but I was trying my hardest to sound adult and professional. "I'm looking for the 'Something Blue' pumps with the rhinestone buckle. Do you have any in store?" 

"We have one pair." 

"Really?? Oh my gosh, thank you!!" I practically screamed. Then hung up. 

The girls stared at me in anticipation. 

"...well?" 

"They have a pair. I can't believe it." 

"Are they your size??" Elizabeth was being practical. In my spazzy panic, I hadn't even asked. 

"Oh. Right. Okay. Yes." 

So I called back and asked. 

"The shoes are a 39 1/2." 

I quickly thanked them and hung up again. 

"And??" the girls said. 

"They're a 39 1/2," I reported. I had absolutely no idea what that meant. 

I Googled (man, Google really came to our rescue in this story) to discover that the single pair of my dream shoes in all of London - maybe even all of England - came in my size. I relayed this information to the girls. 

"We have to go. Right now." Alexis was determined to get us there before the curtain rose for our show later that afternoon. 

And so we did. 

Alexis, in her brilliance, documented each leg of the journey. First, we took the tube to the stop nearest the store:  

Circa 2009. 

We literally ran out of the subway and, panting, hailed a cab we'd soon realize was being manned by the slowest driver on this planet. 

Me and the slowest man. Note the Blackberry Pearl hanging out in my lap.

"Sir, I hate to be a bother, but could you speed it up just a bit? We're really trying to make an appointment." 

The whole ride over, all I could think about was whether I was about to put my foot into a shoe I'd been dreaming about for years. It was more than just a shoe - it was a connection with this person who'd always been aspirational to me. It sounds silly, I know, but Sarah Jessica Parker is more than just a celebrity I love. She's someone whose candor and example have given me something to strive for. I have plenty of wonderful female role models in my real life, but she and I have a special relationship. I wanted to have my very own Carrie Bradshaw moment. 

Finally, we arrived. I remember pulling up like it was yesterday. Vines grew along the edges of the marble awning where the subtle words "Manolo Blahnik" were carved in small letters. 

I felt light-headed. Suddenly, I didn't feel old enough to be here. Did you need parental supervision at Manolo?? Would they let us in? It felt sneaky - rebellious, even - to waltz into this store at 20 years old, accompanied only by other 20-year-old's. But I was on my own in another country, and everything, even going to the food truck outside our college, sent a bolt of electric independence through my chest. 

"I'm only going to try them on," I told the girls. I didn't want any expectations raised that I'd actually be purchasing these bad boys.

Elizabeth and me right before walking in. 

We took our first steps into the small store and I quickly realized we were the only people there. The salesman immediately recognized me (I'm sure the accent was a dead giveaway) and led me straight to the shoes, which were sitting on top of a box, waiting.

"Will you be trying them on?" he asked. 

"Yes."  

I sat down in a chair and the salesman slipped the shoes on, one after the other.

The last photo we were able to take inside as we were told that "Mr. Blahnik doesn't allow photography in the store." Well then. Noted.

Few times in my life have I been speechless, but this was one of them. I couldn't believe I was here. I couldn't believe these shoes were on my feet. 

I stood up and looked in the full-length mirror. Suddenly, standing before me was the reflection of a grown-up girl. These shoes completed the transformation that study abroad had begun: I was an adult now. I was my own woman. I was the agent of my own happiness. For that moment, the person I always wanted to be and the person I actually was merged together. It wasn't the shoes - it was what the shoes represented. Tears filled my eyes, and I heard myself say, 

"Sold." 

"YAY!!!" My precious friends were celebrating and clapping - they'd secretly wanted me to buy these shoes all along. 

It was, to date, the most expensive purchase I've ever made and will probably be the only one of its kind. I won't go into cost details (cough, way-too-expensive, cough) except to say that I paid my parents back for the loan they made. But what choice did I have? These shoes were more than shoes. 

Moments after we left the store, having a total joy-fit. 

We ran sprinting down the streets of London, breaking a tiny sweat, and slid into our seats during the overture of Les Mis. It was a Top 5 day in my life then, and still is. 

I knew when I bought them that I'd keep them unworn until I got married. These were no ordinary shoes - not shoes to tout around at parties or wear to random dinners. No, these shoes were sacred to me - they would be worn for the first time down the aisle at my wedding. 

(Except for all the times I'd "practice" around my house, of course.) 

When I put these shoes on to walk down the aisle in 2014, years later, to a man I hadn't even met when I tried these shoes on in that store in London, I felt a funny wrinkle in time. 

As I looked in the full-length mirror in my wedding gown, I realized that part of what made that moment 2009 so transcendent is that that Mary Catherine, the 20-year-old version, knew somewhere deep down in her bones that these shoes would accent not just that one, but two moments of formative importance. My past self and my current one connected across time and space, both of us standing in our favorite shoes, both having traveled miles and learned lots of lessons to be standing right there. It almost felt like, if I stared hard enough at my reflection, I'd see myself in that yellow dress, smile bursting off my face. Without that girl, I wouldn't have been this one, I thought. They took me down the aisle to the love of my life, then out the door with him as we started our new adventure together. 

I've only ever worn the shoes again to my second anniversary dinner with Jordan. They sit in the now-tattered Manolo box that has been moved from house to house to house, and every so often I peek inside. They wink at me from their box, still inside, still magical, wondering what adventure is around the corner. 

Whatever it is, they'll be along for the trip. 

How Tom Hanks Changed My Life

Published at the Huffington Post here: 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/57d13a3ae4b0273330ac369e?timestamp=1473342539989