I wear my flip flops at night. And in the morning. And in the afternoon. All day. Every day. What can I say? I have cute feet. Especially when I’m wearing my “I’m not really a waitress” red nail polish. Socks make me overheat. And that is *not* cute. Shoes are overrated. And not just because I live on this isolated hippie island, where I know for a fact that I’m not the only one walking around barefoot most of the day.
But once in a blue moon, I have to pull myself together and go be a professional across the water, in America. Not exactly on the top of my “favorite things” list. In fact, if we’re being completely honest, it’s not anywhere on my “favorite things” list. Somewhere in my younger years, I used to at least enjoy digging out my career-wear and going to the mainland to socialize with the people who are making the world turn in their big corporate office buildings. It made me feel smart to stand in front of a room and draw diagrams on a white board while a conference room full of experts threw ideas at me and I filtered them into a coherent strategy. And it made me feel good to look in the mirror and validate my suspicions that I could in fact clean up well when absolutely necessary.
But then, a few years ago, it started to feel really good to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches everyday and see the smiles on my kids faces when they ran to greet me at the end of the school day. So, I started telecommuting and video conferencing, and managing to run an entire business from the comforts of my home office. In my flip flops.
Unfortunately, today required an actual in-person meeting in a real office, with a real person, wearing real shoes. So, I dug out the one pair of black heels that I saved from my closet massacre, and hobbled my way to the office. Usually, I can manage this … walk to the car, ditch the heels for the drive, ferry ride, and freeway traffic. Put shoes back on, hobble to elevator and down the hall to the office. Kick shoes off under conference table.
But today, my beloved phone of three years also took a turn for the worse. (It’s in the air, I guess.) So, after my meeting, I had to stop at the mall and walk through the parking lot, to the store, stand around for an hour waiting my turn for my phone to be evaluated, and then hobble my way back home. Needless to say, as soon as I left the store, I took off my shoes and walked barefoot through the mall and across the mud-puddle ridden parking lot, just trying to keep my dress slacks from getting wet. The entire time, I was drafting my letter to shoe designers in my mind, but I never got past this:
Dear [shoe designer], What the %$#@ is wrong with you?
So, I thought it best to just not say anything at all.
On my way off the ferry, I stopped by my favorite thrift store and donated a lovely pair of 4-inch heels. Like new. Only worn once.