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Feet First by Susan J. Louvier, Waveland MS Honorable Mention Bought myself a pair of flip flops yesterday. Haven’t had any occupy my locker bottom since I left high school all those many (many) months ago. I was casually strolling (sashaying…if you will) down one of the aisles at a local beach junk store on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and there they were; all fresh and cute and sweet and girly-looking, with their hot-pink, open-crocheted tops and rubber, foam-like floppy bottoms. Like a six week old calico kitten in a cardboard box at a roadside fruit stand, they intrinsically knew that we were meant to be together. I turned away initially…a little shy, unable…or unwilling to expose myself to another footwear affair. They called out to me, longing for my attention, alone in a crowd of stranger shoes. I tried desperately to explain that I was not interested in a new relationship; that there were other, more important-ish shoes in my life, ones I was more familiar with, that I had known far longer…and that I had loyalties to; my high heeled big-grown-up-lady-go-to-Krauss, deep forest green pumps that I just HAD to have and will never, never, no NEVER part with; my wore them once-hurt my feet-won’t EVER wear them again but paid FAR too much for them to put them in the Goodwill pile, black and white, call the orthopedic when you take them off, spectators; the long ago lost their sole (okay, now I’m kidding) should go to heaven except that Darwin didn’t believe in it, worn completely out, not even remotely white, athletic shoes that went aaaaall the way to the Galapagos Islands with me, where the first bird life I saw was a brown (gee I coulda stayed home and seen this, friggin’) pelican, and back, so how could I possibly cause the extinction of this species from my closet; my black satin, stiletto heeled, FMP’s (that’s Fancy Missy Prissy) shoes that went so well with the ‘little black dress” all women consider a staple; and oh, all of the many, many countless others; recent loves, infatuations, and fond old footwear friends. These persuasive pink pretties pooh-poohed my protests, insisting that my whole life was horribly dull without them included in it, and demanding that I take them home with me…if for no other reason than to prove the point. I vehemently (yes, vehemently) protested, knowing a betrayal would cause irreparable damage to the relationships I now treasured with my other, more familiar shoes, yet also knowing that my attraction to this new footwear was real, and the urge to cast the constrained, high-heeled, aaaaall business pumps away and be frivolous, near intoxicating. Guilt feelings were strong, but my curiosity about rekindling an old high school flame proved irresistible. I succumbed. We spent the better part of the afternoon together, exploring the steamy streets of the French Quarter, getting acquainted, becoming familiar with each other’s likes, dislikes and little peculiarities. We talked of the flip-flop, flip-flop sound that would be an integral part of our association; how different it was from the clop-clop-clop-clop of my boring business pumps. It took some time for them to convince me that it wasn’t necessary to keep my heels up, and walk on the balls of my feet, as we passed over the open grates of the Quarter’s sidewalks. We considered the strap where the side part penetrates the foam bottom and rubs uncomfortably, and talked of how my unaccustomed feet would have to “toughen up” if this new relationship had any long term possibilities. We discussed how sizzling hot-pink nail polish must become a mainstay in my pedicure procedures in order to be fashionably coordinated with the open crocheted tops. We addressed, most importantly, the ramifications of such a casual pair of shoes trying to survive in among the other, more sophisticated ones in my life. I began to relax a little and, fitting into the idea of strolling slowly, I showed my new friends some of my favorite haunts. We combed the flea market for a floppy casual sun hat to match. We visited one of the local pubs for drinks and, of course, we had lunch at Port of Call. Our pleasant afternoon moved into a delightful evening. I discovered that they didn’t dance very well; not smooth enough to turn and spin when called upon to do so. I was disappointed, but didn’t feel that it was worth ending the relationship over. What they lacked in finesse, they promised to make up to me in comfort. Laughingly, I agreed. It was far too late to send them away. We spent the night together. I must admit, they were good to me; good for me, reintroducing me to an easy pace, a type of fun and freedom long pushed aside as I had gradually, and almost unknowingly become completely engulfed in the stiff, staunch attire of the business world. And so, I now understand what was missing all of this time and why it is monumentally important to put the needs of your flip-flops above all else. We still have some sole-searching (groan) to do regarding the other footwear…jealous rumblings from my black, pat flat sandals; fuzzy slippers that have hidden under the bed and won’t come out…but overall, this new relationship has shown that it has immense future possibilities and is worth continuing.
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