Self-Portrait as a Flip Flop

 

I’m poised and ready for this confession:

I prefer to be barefoot. In summers, I’m often

searching the house for my sandals, like some do for keys –

I kick them off the second I come to a standstill. That’s why

I am a flip flop. I’m as close to being a barefoot gypsy

dancing circles on the grass around a campfire as can

legally be done in the 48 contiguous states.

I remember being turned away from a night club

in Western Australia because I lacked a back strap. This

from the folk who go barefoot in grocery stores and pharmacies

(where my cousins can be purchased in a variety of colors

and styles for a reasonable price). I don’t want to be separated

from the earth beyond one slim layer of suede or a cushiony

ethylene vinyl acetate yoga mat insole with arch support. Truth is,

I wanted to be dolphin, to feel water cascading off my slick back

the way air slides off us when breaking a wave into air.

I got the short end of that stick and was designated

to be footwear. No worries. I make the most of what comes my way.

Or I make the least, in my case. I want to be the least encumbered

shoe I can be. I provide the largest area of the feet I protect

to be caressed by sun and air, even puddles, if we’re lucky

and get rain. When I was in grade school, we kids learned

a bunch of new songs each year that we sang in a program

for our folks, all lined up in bleachers on the stage. One year

for the grand finale, we sang “Don’t Fence Me In,” and

boy howdy did all seventy of us kids belt that one out

from the soles of our feet straight out through our lungs.

That’s me. I can’t stand to be fenced in. I let my dogs

be as close to unshod as can be and still technically be “shoes.”