I bought a new pair of sandals last night.
What a deceptive opening sentence...written so quickly, so simply. Be not fooled, reader. There has been nothing simple about these sandals.
I've always worn my footwear hard. Something strange in my gate rubs away at the outer left heel. I love to keep my shoes till they're dead. But these days, my shoes' life expectancy is alarmingly short, as my strange gate takes me traipsing through the ankle-rolling roads and sidewalks of a South Asian mega city. Compounding the problem is the difficulty in finding a good sturdy pair of leather sandals - the kind that are overpriced and under appreciated here, especially in regards to women's footwear.
On my way to Europe I am, in just a week or so. I'm looking forward to walking through beautiful towns and cities and hills. I need some dual-sports, those sandals that can go with a casual skirt on a sidewalk while still being worthy of forest trails...tricky. So I finally broke down and ordered some online - going against a firmly held belief that jeans, swimsuits, and shoes should never be bought without first trying on. I was desperate. So I found some that look great and had them delivered to a friend who will meet me in that fair continent.
However I remain haunted by the real possibility that these sandals will not fit. So on a weekly basis I frequent some market or mall or other - wasting what has now tallied up to hours - and look through all the shoes to see if any will suffice as an appropriate yet inexpensive backup.
Last night I found a pair and bought them.
Today I was walking down my neighborhood's main street and noticed that these new sandals were kicking up mud behind me, speckling my favorite pair of khakis. It's okay, I pacified myself. Get to soap and water quickly and the khakis will be fine. Almost home, I stopped at the little ATM booth for cash, flexed my foot a bit while waiting, and felt the now familiar snap of a toe strap.
"You've GOT to be kidding me!" I yelled aloud to the oblivious machine in front of me as I looked down in disbelief.
Disbelief turned to dread - there's only one way to make it home with a broken sandal, and that's to carry it. Carry it, while walking with one foot bare through the sludge of rainy season.
Time to let go, Jess, I tell myself as I limp through down the street, the unnamable concoction that layers all pathways oozing between my toes, with people snickering behind me as I pass them - it's happened to everyone here, so everyone has a right to amusement I suppose. Yes, it is time to let go of my obsessive precaution, and trust in the course I've chosen.
And if it helps me to sleep, it may be worth it to throw a pair of plastic flip-flops into my suitcase.
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