Flip-Flop Fairy Tale
The true story of how I lost my shoe – and found love – on a bus
A couple of years ago, I was feeling fairly forsaken in the prince charming department. In fact, I was thoroughly convinced that my prince was arriving at quarter-past never. But instead of wallowing in single solitude, I vowed to embrace it. Kind of like the Titanic band playing on.
I decided that instead of resigning myself to another crying jag, I’d take a vacation all by my lonesome. Miraculously, it turned out to be anything but lonely.
I wrote about this real-life romantic comedy for the New York Post last week, in a column called “If The Flip-Flop Fits.” (Excerpt below.)
As you read this very true tale, I hope you’ll remember that once in awhile fairy tales do come true.
Excerpt from “If The Flip-Flop Fits” from the New York Post:
I’m stretched out on the Jitney, returning from a wild weekend in the Hamptons. And by wild I mean 48 gay men, 47 identical grosgrain belts, one summer share ripped from the pages of Design Within Reach and me — the token straight girl visiting from LA.
As evidenced by my weekend plans, I’d basically given up on romantic relationships.
Then I notice the dark-haired man across the aisle. He’s toned. He’s tanned. He’s almost tall. He’s babbling on his phone at a volume fit for a Judas Priest concert.
Now, while I’m more bicoastal-curious than full-time New Yorker, I still pride myself on knowing city etiquette, and sexpot or not, Jitney phone chat is a huge no-no.
I feel morally obliged to send him a withering have-you-no-shame stare. Then I realize he’s singing “Happy Birthday.” In French. To his grandmother.
I turn my stare-o-shame inward, where it feels at home.
I try to look beguiling as I drift into a trés elegant catnap. I unfurl my legs and arrange my skirt in an enticing kiss around my thighs.
An hour later, an LIE pothole jolts me awake. Drool stains my cheeks. A snore honks through my nose.
I rummage through my bag for a hairbrush, lip gloss, my dignity, when — bam! — we slam into another pothole, causing my sandal to fly from my foot, ricochet across the aisle and smack Jitney Crush right between his eyes.
Cinderella had her glass slipper. I had a violent, airborne flip-flop.
Luckily, J.C. takes the feral shoe as flirtation. “Lose something?” he asks, slipping the sandal over my foot. I smile dumbly, wishing fervently that I’d waxed my toes.
“Don’t you hate the end of a good beach weekend?” he asks.
“Carrie,” I answer. “I mean, yes. My name is Carrie, and yes, Sundays are the worst.”
“Yeah, I have to be at the hospital early tomorrow.”
“Oh, me too,” I laugh. “Gotta save some lives! Haha!”
He’s not kidding. But at least he’s laughing. With me, I convince myself. Turns out J.C. is a Harvard-educated doctor. (Thank you, God, for poorly constructed footwear!)
We exchange travel stories. I mention visiting my parents in Nebraska. He mentions teaching English to blind children in Morocco.
As the Jitney nears 61st Street, we share numbers. Then a cab, then a glass (or was it four?) of wine, then a tour of his place, where I check the closet for reality TV cameras.
Click here to find out what happens next in Carrie’s flip-flop fairy tale.
What’s your “Prince Charming” story?
Read Carrie’s last blog, “Love is a Glass of Ice Water“