July 19, 2009

Today I blew out my flip-flop. I did not step on a pop-top, but I did finally understand what the hell Jimmy Buffett has been singing about all these years. I felt sad as I tossed my trusty black 8-year old first-ever-pair of Havaianas into the trash, next to coffee grounds, old cheese and a Clorox wipe. They were the same flip-flops that had walked me onto countless beaches, thru lengthy shopping expeditions, down stairs behind bookcases and into the back rooms of Canal Street, across the Great Wall, into relationships, out of relationships, oh there you are back into the same relationships, through Sicily, the Philippines, a slew of islands, too many subway floors to count, sporting battle wounds of white paint from renovating an old beach bathroom, dulled by countless hours spent on my sweaty feet and then pedicured feet only to sweat again, soaking in the sun and sand and salt water and bbq sauce (I can't help it I'm messy when I eat). I also felt a strange sense of pride at being in a club I thought was reserved for parrotheads, pirates staring at 40 and people whose attitudes change depending on their latitudes. Today I joined the club of people who have blown out their flip-flops. And I feel liberated.