The Death of a Sandal
In case you haven't noticed, I tend to become emotionally attached to things. I know, a little worrisome, but if you knew the price/condition of most of the things I love, you would feel a little better.
I name the things I love. I keep them for a long time. I smile fondly when I remember them. I wrote recently about Blue, my guitar. Well, she's not my first or my only love.
My first car was Ethel. She was a maroon '90 Pontiac Grand Am, and I drove her from age 16-21. My Senior year of college, it became very evident that Ethel wouldn't be with us much longer, so I sent her off to better hands that could make her passage to death a little easier. She threw a rod on the bypass in Harlan, KY, and my dad traded her for the price of getting her towed off of the road and a free ride home. Rest in peace, Ethel.
Ethel was replaced by her older sister, Mavis, an '88 Chevy Cavalier. Enough said. I hated Mavis. After that was the Toyota, who was a boy, and his name was "The Toyota." He was ok--the only car I ever drove that actually could accelerate uphill, if it wasn't too steep.
But above all these loves stands my birkenstocks. Two straps in the front, and a back strap to keep them from sliding around. They got me through a couple years of college, mission trips, and a year and a half in Spain. They became an attachment to my feet the minute I felt I could avoid frostbite in the spring, and only left me in the fall when my toes turned blue.
The cork on my birkenstocks started crumbling late last summer. No big deal. The tread is wearing thin, making them hazardous to wear in the rain. This May, I noticed that the back of the sole had fallen off, leaving the woven cloth under the instep (formerly brown, now black) exposed.
Two days ago, I was walking around in my sandals, and I started to hear this strange flapping noise. On my right sandal, the sole and the instep had separated all the way back to the arch. Prognosis: not good. I took them to the birkenstock store to see if they could be repaired, and was met with a look from the cashier that said "what on earth are doing bringing your shoes in here? Get them away before they contaminate the other shoes!"
The diagnosis wasn't any more pleasant than her look. The straps were the only thing salvageable, and even they needed cleaning. It would cost more to fix the sandals than I had originally paid for them (granted, they have raised their prices in the last four years). It was painful, but I had to make the decision to let them go.
I got some new sandals (couldn't afford new birkenstocks, but the new shoes are red and funky) that I like very much, and I'm trusting that over the years that like will grow to love. But I'm still mourning for my birkenstocks.
I couldn't bear to throw them away, but I know that if I take them back to Madrid, I will face ridicule and waste precious suitcase space. Good thing I was with Brianna. The birkenstocks are resting peacefully in her closet, and once I'm gone, she can do what she wants with them, as long as she doesn't tell me about it. I think they have found a good resting place to live out their golden years (or days).
So with new sandals on my feet and a tear in my eye, I would like to say goodbye once and for all to my dear friends the birkenstocks. You will be sorely missed by all....or, me, anyway.
I name the things I love. I keep them for a long time. I smile fondly when I remember them. I wrote recently about Blue, my guitar. Well, she's not my first or my only love.
My first car was Ethel. She was a maroon '90 Pontiac Grand Am, and I drove her from age 16-21. My Senior year of college, it became very evident that Ethel wouldn't be with us much longer, so I sent her off to better hands that could make her passage to death a little easier. She threw a rod on the bypass in Harlan, KY, and my dad traded her for the price of getting her towed off of the road and a free ride home. Rest in peace, Ethel.
Ethel was replaced by her older sister, Mavis, an '88 Chevy Cavalier. Enough said. I hated Mavis. After that was the Toyota, who was a boy, and his name was "The Toyota." He was ok--the only car I ever drove that actually could accelerate uphill, if it wasn't too steep.
But above all these loves stands my birkenstocks. Two straps in the front, and a back strap to keep them from sliding around. They got me through a couple years of college, mission trips, and a year and a half in Spain. They became an attachment to my feet the minute I felt I could avoid frostbite in the spring, and only left me in the fall when my toes turned blue.
The cork on my birkenstocks started crumbling late last summer. No big deal. The tread is wearing thin, making them hazardous to wear in the rain. This May, I noticed that the back of the sole had fallen off, leaving the woven cloth under the instep (formerly brown, now black) exposed.
Two days ago, I was walking around in my sandals, and I started to hear this strange flapping noise. On my right sandal, the sole and the instep had separated all the way back to the arch. Prognosis: not good. I took them to the birkenstock store to see if they could be repaired, and was met with a look from the cashier that said "what on earth are doing bringing your shoes in here? Get them away before they contaminate the other shoes!"
The diagnosis wasn't any more pleasant than her look. The straps were the only thing salvageable, and even they needed cleaning. It would cost more to fix the sandals than I had originally paid for them (granted, they have raised their prices in the last four years). It was painful, but I had to make the decision to let them go.
I got some new sandals (couldn't afford new birkenstocks, but the new shoes are red and funky) that I like very much, and I'm trusting that over the years that like will grow to love. But I'm still mourning for my birkenstocks.
I couldn't bear to throw them away, but I know that if I take them back to Madrid, I will face ridicule and waste precious suitcase space. Good thing I was with Brianna. The birkenstocks are resting peacefully in her closet, and once I'm gone, she can do what she wants with them, as long as she doesn't tell me about it. I think they have found a good resting place to live out their golden years (or days).
So with new sandals on my feet and a tear in my eye, I would like to say goodbye once and for all to my dear friends the birkenstocks. You will be sorely missed by all....or, me, anyway.
posted by kelly_w at 6:57 PM
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