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Single, White, Female Looking for Love
by Gabrielle Pickle
06/27/07
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SINGLE, WHITE, FEMALE.
Early 30's. Independent. Debt-free. Golfer.
Likes dogs and Jazz.
Seeks single male with mutual interests
Desiring commitment and love

“Can I help you find anything in particular?" The shoe salesman asked as he followed me down yet another aisle lined with shoeboxes.

"No thank you. I will know which shoes I want when I see them." I waved him off, my eyes never leaving the rows of jewel-toned heels in front of me. I glanced down the row and there they were. Cue the climactic music. Black, three inch stilettos, with red leather soles and heels. I was in love. If they were a man I would have dropped to one knee and proposed right there in aisle three of Monique’s Shoe Boutique. There was only one pair left, and it was in my size. The stars must be aligned. Fate, it had to be fate. After all, I was in love.

He answered my newspaper add in person, which would normally have freaked me out, but he was blond, tan, and intelligent looking. And men like that show up on my doorstep, um, never, so I ignored the initial uneasiness.

"I have reserved a three o'clock tee time at the country club, if you are interested." He cocked his head sideways and melted my resistance with an engaging grin. I simply couldn't refuse.

Golf somehow merged into dinner and slow dancing at a Jazz Bar. A week later he helped me pick out a chocolate Labrador puppy from the local kennel.

Six months into my own personal fairytale, he proposed in the moonlight at our favorite golf course green. I was wearing the black stilettos and the ultimate little black dress. A winning combination if I do say so myself. My favorite Jazz band played at our wedding reception. I couldn't wipe the dreamy smile off my face - I was head over very cute high heels for this man. This was the real thing; it was love.

The gray light of dawn wafted through the kitchen window as I sipped on my morning cup of French-pressed coffee. I toyed with my newly dyed hair while flipping aimlessly through the Bible that my teenage son had brought home from some summer camp.

With disgust, I shoved the Bible away, only to uncover the divorce papers I had been trying unsuccessfully to ignore. Standing to refresh my coffee, I nearly tripped as my foot caught on my once-favorite pair of scuffed up black stilettos.

Everything was in shambles now. Everything I loved had been ripped away or had run away screaming. All I wanted was to be loved; was that so terrible? It seemed so effortless in the movies. No matter how messed up the plot is, or how ugly the heroin’s wardrobe, or how fiercely the couple fights – there is always a happy ending. True love prevails. (And I made it a point to never see a movie that doesn’t have a happy ending.) I want that kind of happy-ending true love.

With a sigh of despair, I reached again for the Bible. The bookmark ribbon was in the section called John. I wondered if he was a cute author, or one of the washed-out kinds. "For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that whoever believes in him will not perish, but have everlasting life."

Sitting in my cute cotton pajamas, I read of a God who was patient, kind, gentle, forgiving, self-sacrificing and always there. A God who never gives up or grows tired. A God who gave up his perfect son for me. It was there, in the quiet of my kitchen that I found true love.

And that is my happy ending.


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