I officially don’t own flip flops.
This is a big deal. I live in California. It’s like a state requirement. At any moment the California police are probably going to walk into my house and take me away. I’ll be forced to explain to them that it’s not my fault that I am wearing shoes and socks in 90 degree heat. I will sell out the dog and explain that she has officially chewed up every pair of (expensive) flip flops that I own. They will arrest both of us. We will end up in the same Women’s Correctional Facility. Emma will make my life hell and I will be labeled a “snitch” for ratting her out. She will chew up all of my bath slippers and I will be forced to shower without flip flops. I hear that’s a no go in prison. I’ve clearly been watching too much Orange is the New Black. Like, whoa. Prison tangent. Normal for a Tuesday.
My point is (if there is one), it totally sucks to wake up on a Monday morning and discover that both your Reef sandals and your husbands Rainbow sandals have been reduced to leathery spit balls. At the rate we are going, I will be shoeless by August. I will be relegated to digging in my closet to find the one pair of forgotten shoes that I can strap onto my feet. Is it going to be my ugg-style cat boots (highly misguided fashion choice) or will it be the slightly furry Birkenstock clogs that I obtained for free by Christmas caroling at the Birkenstock factory in 2001? Both choices sound pretty solid. Help.
One day, in my teaching years, I found myself wearing the aforementioned Birkenstock clogs to class. I was informed by a six year old that it looked like I was wearing a couple of sea otters on my feet. I think I replied with a simple, “They are.” Gotta keep ‘em guessing. […]