Sandals!

From an early age, I've had a thing for shoes. It started—where so many obsessions do—in church. And when I write "church," I mean the Catholic mass, which was the tradition I grew up with. For me, church was long, church was pretty boring (though I did like the ringing of the bells at the consecration), and, when everyone went up for communion, my knees ached from kneeling so long—as did my arms: since they were too short to rest on the back of the bench, I was reaching up.

One fine communion time, I glanced over at all the adults waiting in the communion line. And I noticed that if I tilted my head just so under my arms, I would appear to be praying. In reality, I was taking advantage of the perfect view of all those shoes traipsing up and back. I was fascinated.

My favorite shoes were SANDALS. They were the best. They were the most beautiful, the most graceful, and the most interesting. My birthday is in the summer, and I would always ask for sandals as my birthday present.

"You know, those are pretty hard to run in," my mom would say, every year.

"No they're not," I would answer quickly, confidently.

She was right. They were. Sandals tended to slip on grass. Sandals tended to be tripped over when running on pavement. Sandals didn't tend to hold feet securely for quick course corrections. To this day, if I look closely at my knees, I can see lots of little scars from all my spills over the years, courtesy of my sandals. I also wonder if I wouldn't be a faster runner today if I had been able to get any speed in my sandals.

And yet, there was no happier girl in all the land if I got sandals for my birthday. Out of all my faithful servants, there are two pairs I especially remember.

The first were my bicentennial summer sandals. They had tons of straps in red, white, and blue, with a cork floor. I felt completely glamorous in them. One day, I had a sharp pain in my foot. I told my mom and dad and they looked at my foot, finding nothing. I stood up and felt it again. They told me to take off my sandal and they examined it, finding nothing. I put the sandal back on and felt it again. "Well, you must have outgrown them," my dad said, tossing them in the trash. I was devastated! My beautiful sandals, tossed in the dustbin of history! I cried. Going back to my closed-toe shoes was like a penance. Oh, the humanity!

The second pair I especially remember were as comfortable as a sneaker and just as good for running. I could do anything in those sandals, and hardly fell down at all. The following summer, I remember how excited I was to put them on again—only to find I had outgrown them.

I ask you, has any child ever faced such deprivation? Well, I didn't think so.

Nowadays, I still love shoes and looooove looking at them. With the amount of walking I do, I am more eagle-eyed (read: completely obsessed) for shoes I can wear for long distances in comfort. But sandals will always have a special place in my heart (and my closet).

Please note: and when I say sandals, I MEAN SANDALS. I do NOT mean flip-flops, which are an abomination to footwear everywhere.