One year ago, you could find me running in a pair of worn, $30 Asics, pushing a jogging stroller, picking up cans. The jogging compensated for my baby weight and the cans were recycled to pay our electric bill.

While my interests in saving the planet were ever-present, we were grad-school-poor. Period.

Lucky for us, I discovered fashion in thrift stores and soon enough all roads led to graduation and a wonderful career for Jahred, my husband. Recently, to celebrate our progress, Jahred took me to Nordstrom’s for a flirtatious day of fashion and one seemingly impossible mission: finding a dress for his sister's wedding.

The wedding, scheduled for August, is for me emerging from the cocoon of a former life, massive sacrifice and difficult decisions. A brand-new dress will surely be the icing on my formerly "Plain Jane" demeanor and guarded persona.

I tried on scores of designer pieces. Strutting the dressing room runway on tip-toe/faux high heels, I was ready to drop some hard-earned dollars on a one-of-a-kind Kate Spade or perhaps a Dolce and Gabbana.

The stars must have aligned because for the first time in my life I could not find a dress unflattering to my figure. Jahred had delivered a piece of retail heaven and I loved every minute of it.

At the end of the day, I simply could not decide which frock to throw the money at, so we left the store empty-handed. Later in the week, acquainting myself with our new hometown, I started to notice thrift stores. Thinking I should pop in to Savers for "old times' sake," I immediately spied a dress hanging on an end cap, perhaps a newly donated piece. It appeared vintage. Navy zebra print, strapless, unique and stunning; I was intrigued. I slipped it on and – just like that – my sweet little thrift-store find filled the yearning hanger in my closet.

I paid $25 – a lot in thrift-store standards – for the dress, but I had budgeted hundreds. Thus, feeling the monetary surplus burning a hole in my wallet, Jahred and I returned to Minneapolis, this time in search of the perfect shoe. I tried desperately to talk myself into a pair by Manolo Blahnik; it was the first time I let myself slip on shoes of that magnitude. Making just one parade lap in the $700 pumps, Jahred must have detected my inner fireworks.

"I want you to have these shoes," he told me.

Strangely enough, although a light has come on near the end of our tunnel, it was maybe enough that Jahred "wanted" to buy them for me. I couldn't calculate how many cans we would have had to pick up a year ago to cover the cost of these babies, and it didn't matter. I left the store without them.

This coming August, I plan to strut the "recycled" zebra print with grace and a bit of learned budgetary elegance at my sister-in-law's nuptials. As for the shoes, I found a darling pair of Manolo's on the web for a fraction of the price. They will be a beautiful token to bridge the canyon between the tired Asics of my past and the confidence of my future. Lesson learned at Savers: When you stick to your roots, you end up wearing/being exactly what you should be.

 J.L. Stephens of Sartell describes herself as "an always curious, Minnesota-grown bookworm with an old soul and an eye for the zest in life."