Broken Ankle And All, New Bride Takes Great Pains To Look Her Best

The wedding date was set, the site reserved, the caterer contacted, the dress ordered. The months slid by and suddenly I realized: the moment of truth -will the dress fit? - was approaching. I studied my Christmas pounds and general flab. Something had to be done. So in a quest to slim down, firm up and run around with some vague purpose, I joined a soccer team. A coed soccer team.

When I used to play soccer as a youth, I was great. I was better than all the other girls. I needed the higher competitiveness of the boys to make the game fun. So I thought coed soccer would be just the thing.

Now that I am old and timid, I have found I am no longer a great soccer player. I am no longer better than all the other girls. And, frankly, the boys just scare me. But I felt fairly confident on the field - confident I would walk away from the field in one piece, and that with such weekly soccer torture, the 100-percent-silk dress would fit beautifully.

`For better or for worse'

I was engaged for a year, and I played soccer for a year. I was a little slimmer and little stronger, and I eagerly awaited the arrival of Galina style No. 1809.

A mere four weeks before the arrival of my gown and just two months and one week before my stroll down the aisle, I went to my soccer game. And I played terribly - as though I'd never seen a soccer ball before. I lumbered up and down the field. We were losing and had no substitute players. There was nothing to do but wait for

halftime.

A girl from the other team was coming down the field with the ball. I was there and had no choice but to step up to the task. I took the ball and turned. My ankle made a terrible crunching noise and I fell to the ground. I shrieked. I used foul language. I scrabbled at the dirt while the pain coursed through my leg.

My darling fiance drove me to the emergency room. As I moaned with each pothole we hit, he muttered over and over, "For better or for worse, for better or for worse."

The ER doctors referred me to an orthopedic surgeon, who sent me back to the hospital for surgery. They put a metal plate and seven screws in my ankle, starting me on my journey to becoming the Bionic Bride. I had several splints and an Ace bandage. I later got a cast, a blue cast.

The minister marrying us pointed out that the cast could be my something blue for the wedding.

Alas, however, I graduated beyond the blue cast to a walking boot - gray, with black Velcro and an attractive black plastic bottom. But most bridal magazines don't list something gray with Velcro in the essentials column.

Hobbling down the aisle

On the bright side, I can now walk (well, lurch) without crutches. Perhaps that slow pace of walking down the aisle will suit my injury. Hey, I'll get there eventually. And my future husband will wait for me. He has already shown remarkable perseverance while fetching things for me as I lounged and complained on the sofa.

When my beautiful wedding gown arrived, I struggled to get it on while standing on one foot, leaning against the door frame. I could hardly tell what it looked like. After calling in a friend to help, I ascertained that, yes, it did fit and yes, it was lovely. As I admired the silk, the lace, the train wrapped around my walking boot, I realized that soccer had served its purpose. I was thinner, particularly where my leg muscles had atrophied while under the blue cast.

With luck, I will return the boot to the orthopedic surgeon before the wedding. The dress is long and perhaps no one will notice that one leg is noticeably smaller and weaker than the other. Or that one ankle is remarkably more swollen. Or that I seem to list left when walking down the aisle. The next hurdle is the honeymoon in the Caribbean. I hear saltwater is good for injuries.

Essay appears Sundays in Scene, aimed, as all of Scene is, at the styles and vagaries of everyday life.