I had a co-worker who hated feet. He said when all his kids and grandkids reached five-years-old he gave them a pair of shoes and told them, “Cover up. It’s not cute anymore.”
I thought that was so hilarious I included it in my current Work in Progress.
I sat on an aisle seat at my job. Whenever anyone with Flip-Flops walked by, they created such a ruckus, it was difficult to concentrate.
We had one lady, that moved like a freight train, fast and chugging along. Now, imagine that constant slapping of her thongs against her feet at a high rate of speed. Fine china would have dropped off the cupboards.
We had a supervisor who wore some sort of air-thongs. When she went slapping by my desk, not only was there the pleasure of that constant flap-slap to the tune of some heavy metal band, but they made that extra squish in and out. With every single step, flop-squish, flop-squish. I sat just outside the copy room, so every time she needed to make copies, she’d have to flop-squish by my desk a couple of hundred times.
It became so annoying; I put up a paper with pull tabs on the end. The paper said, “The sound of Flip-Flops is:”
On the pull tabs, people had their choice of, Annoying, Aggravating, and the sound of a symphony to my ears…
Co-workers then pulled tabs and taped the tab they wanted to their desks. Some of those tabs stayed on their computers for years. I thought I was alone in my aggravation.
The amazing thing to me was the people who wore the flip-flops didn’t understand.
The freight train turned her head with the same quizzical look you might find on a cocker spaniel puppy looking at a new pair of carpet slippers.
Look, I’ve got nothing against flip-flops, except the noise. Although there was the time, I met some friends for lunch at a restaurant. A woman in her thirties sat reading a book. She had kicked off her flip-flops and had her feet extended to the empty booth before her. She kept wiggling her digits and rubbing them all over the seat. It must have been a real toe-curling book, but my thoughts turned to the next person who sat at the booth. They have good table manners. They don’t have their hands-on the table. They keep them on their lap or the seat. Between bites of their sandwich…well you get the picture. Ew…
I have many relatives and friends in LOVE with their sandals and frequently post pictures of their toes and their latest pedicure.
I get it. It is a sign of enjoyment and pleasure. A signal that I’ve made it. I’m living the life. My tootsies are out in the open. People post pictures of their feet relaxing, crossed at the ankle. In the distance, lay a body of water with a palm tree or two. Sometimes their kiddos are playing in a paddling pool.
Why doesn’t the construction worker post pictures of his steel toed work boots with his latest building in the background? That’s success. He’s happy to be working.
The factory worker doesn’t post pictures of his blood-stained boots after a shift of packing liver.
I admit I have posted a picture of my bicycling shoes with my bike in the background. In the foreground, a copy of one of my favorite writing books, The War of Art by Steven Pressfield.
It all says the same thing. I’m, relaxing.
In our social media conscious world, posting a picture of our piglets is a status symbol. We all have phones at the ready. The latest megapixel digital image of whatever we are proud of ends up on Twitter, Instagram or Facebook. In the sharpest detail, we get images of what we’re eating, doing, playing and of course we get to look at people’s feet. I’m sure my former co-worker blocks those people.
“Why’d you unfriend me, Bob? That’s so rude.”
“It was your feet, John. You keep posting pictures of your gnarly toes. It’s gross, man.”
And that’s another thing. You don’t see men posting pictures of their feet. Maybe, most men realize that people don’t want to look at those dogs.
Did our ancestors rush to the photographer and pay hard earned money to stick their tootsies up? They couldn’t afford to have pictures taken. One hundred years from now, our descendants will look at pictures of their parents and grandparents latest pedicure. “Wow, Grandma has an amazing big toe.” Or, “My feet look just like Grandpa’s.” Mom will pat the kid on the head and wipe away a tear, “Grandpa would be so proud.”
I guess I should confess that I have webbed toes. My parents said when I was born; they looked at my feet and laughed and laughed. Unfortunately, anybody else who gets a gander of them does the same thing. Doctors, nurses and even a massage therapist or two let out a shriek. Then, I get questions about surgery. Really? You want me to spend thousands of dollars for something so ridiculous? I think they look fine. But I’m not about to post a picture of them for your viewing pleasure/displeasure.
I just prefer to wear something with more substance. I do like to wear clogs or slides. Maybe, I’ll start posting pictures of my ankles. Now, that’s sexy.
P.S. I started a Facebook page devoted to Flip Flop Haters. Called appropriately enough, Flip Flop Haters. I’ve never launched the site until now. Feel free to like the Flip Flop Hater’s page. Even if you love Flip-Flops, I hope you like the page.