I don’t know where it began, but I absolutely cannot stand to have my feet uncovered. I hate walking on tile or linoleum with bare feet, my soles sticking to the floor. The thought of walking on hard wood flooring unshod, possibly impaling myself on a splinter, makes the hair on the back of my legs stand up.
Once I had a dream that I had just woken up and was paralyzed, held down to the bed by an unseen force only able to move my eyes to look toward my uncovered, unprotected feet while my then 4 year old nephew was inserting sewing needles into my arches, giggling as he watched them travel up the veins in my legs.
Understandably I do not wear flip-flops.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have any fear or hatred of the human foot itself, nor do other people’s feet bother me. I’m not podophobic, I just recognize that my feet are particularly doughy and vulnerable and I project this vulnerability onto other people. I don’t mind cuddling up to someone in bed and having their feet touch me under the covers; I rather like that actually. In fact, I prefer to cuddle with guys who have a set of intact feet.
Where was I? Yes, back to flip-flops.
What is it with people and these abominations of footwear? Is it because they’re so
Being from New Orleans, of course the first situation that comes to mind is a drunk frat guy or sorostitute throwing up on the floor near you or finding yourself accidentally stumbling through a mound of horse crap the size of Monkey Hill in the middle of the street; or the middle of the sidewalk. If you have spent any time there, you know that two thirds of every block in New Orleans is basically covered in either horse crap or tourist vomit and yet there are hundreds of people constantly walking around wearing nothing more on their feet than a piece of nylon twine and nerf refuse.
Frequently I see people wearing flip flops with shorts or jeans on the street or in the bars and although my logical mind acknowledges that this is a fashionably acceptable combination, it terrifies me, given the amount of people in very close proximity in a bar. It’s just asking for trouble: a crushed distal phalanx, a wet foot from a spilled drink or accidentally puncturing a cute guy’s Achilles tendon with my sharp, talon-like nails.
It’s hard to keep them trim them while constantly wearing socks.
Today, here in DC, I saw someone wearing flip-flops with a suit and tie for god’s sake. What’s up with that? What if some crazed defendant, unable to control his rage, suddenly bolts across the room when the verdict is read? What if before the bailiffs taze him and tackle him to the ground, he accidentally steps on your foot or vomits? What if one of the bailiffs has a horse? What then, mr lawyer-man with the flip flops? What then?