The Homesteader Cabin
These flip-flops are slowing me down
by Sandra Walter
I sat in the foot doctor's waiting room and traced my steps back to when I first felt the stinging pain in my feet. It had been nearly a year since I wore those pointy pumps; I lounged with my coworkers at a hotel suite after-party and tried to hide the shocking throb which occurred when I pulled off my shoes. One of my left toes was broken, or at least it felt broken. My foot hurt earlier in the evening, but I had enough red wine in me to dull even a major injury. With my buzz wearing off and my toes screaming at me, I congratulated everyone on a great event and hobbled back to my room.
I have spent four years on Planet California and am still trying to fit in. When I first came to Santa Barbara I owned one pair of sandals: the kind for hiking, with tough straps and a good sole. I climbed mountains in those sandals. I ran, sailed, kayaked, biked, hiked, and creek-walked over sharp rocks. They were made for action. I held onto them for a long time before conforming to the "Santa Barbara style." After much deliberation, I purchased a pair of flip flops; a style which adorns every trendy person's feet in this tiny town. I grew to like them. They are comfortable and guarantee the casual stride of a vapid Southern California gal. I still own my sturdy sport sandals, but my shoe wardrobe has been overrun by a slew of flip flops; from basic flats to the wedge type with fancy straps at the toe. No ankle straps, no arch support, nothing you could run more than a few half-hearted steps in. Flip flops, even the "fancy" kind, are built for leisurely strolls and subtly resist any request for speed. They are slow, kicked-back, beachy attire, and I am embarrassed as an East coast transplant to admit I own more than 6 pairs of the flimsy things. My casual office dress code allowed me to wear these non-shoes while my left toe "healed" or at least that was my rationalization for shuffling around in them for the last year.
I have friends who broke their toes; their doctors didn't seem to do much for them. There are no casts involved, just some advice to "stay off of your feet for a while." After the pump incident, my toes were straight and flexed easily on their own, so I gave my injury a few days to heal. A few days turned into a few weeks, then months, and I knew something was amiss. My newfound addiction to spin and kickboxing classes escalated the toe pain, so I finally decided to have my feet looked at by a professional. I should have come in much earlier to see what was up with my toe, and I knew the doctor would chastise me for bad foot care behavior.
The middle-aged doc looked over his glasses at my feet. I am proud of my feet; they are strong dancer's feet with many miles on them. As the doctor gazed down at my shiny pink polish, I wondered if I was just another specimen to him or if he secretly thought, Nice feet. He poked around my heels and arches, and then began to inspect my toes. He pinched between my big toe and second toe: fine. Second and third: fine. Third and fourth: I inhaled sharply and winced. He nodded and pulled out a model of a foot skeleton. He explained how my lifetime of jarring activity; years of dancing, walking around barefoot, and running on city pavement, had taken their toll. Diagnosis: Nerve damage. Solution: cushy new sneakers for every sport, and cushy supportive shoes to wear until the nerve healed. He suggested no impact sports, read my look and saw I wasn't amenable to that, and offered a shot of cortisone to deaden the pain. I declined, as I'm not a mask-the-pain type. Then he recommended I not wear heels of any kind, or any type of shoe that pushed my unhappy toes together. They needed space and T.L.C., and would heal in a few months if I heeded his advice.
I went shoe shopping for some good support. I endured the shop girl's sneers and selected the sportiest, coolest-looking flats I could find. Not the faux ballet slipper flats that are fashionable right now, but the colorful treaded type with criss-cross straps which make them look like futuristic Mary Janes. The shoe girls didn't approve of my selection of three pairs in the same style in different shades. They offered me high planky heels by the same designer, which I turned down and explained that I have nerve damage. Their response was a familiar one; the look they reserve for anything us poor fools over thirty have to deal with that they don't want to think about. They packed up my shoes, gave me a manipulative smile as they described the Macy's customer survey that their bosses were totally going to read if I responded, and wished me, "Good luck with my new shoes." I'm pretty sure what they meant was, "Good luck NOT wearing heels or flip flops in Santa Barbara!"
Obviously, I'm no longer entertained by the quaint colloquialisms of So Cal. It's ironic that I have nerve damage right now. I've totally become sensitive to the differences between my old haunts and this sunny coastal village. It is also true that I need more support. The culturelessness of a pretty tourist community has worn me down: emotionally, spiritually, and now, physically. The slow drag of the flip flop pace has upset my natural balance. The memory of my vibrant daily race through the city is fading fast.
I have considered and reconsidered my choice to stay on in this little Shangri-la. Factoring in high rents in exchange for higher temperatures, palm trees in exchange for seasons, and outdoor exercise in exchange for cultural stimulation, I conclude this stretch of time was meant to be experienced in exchange for an appreciation of where I have been. It does work my nerves, but I am done with my flip flop attitude. That includes flipping from the love I feel for our little piece of paradise and flopping to the familiar sensations and allures of a speedy city life. I simply gambled too much when I invested in flip flops. They are bad for my feet, but they did grant me a perspective I may not have noticed at my usual pace. Sometimes a casual stroll is needed to observe the simplicity of life. A slower pace reveals all of the lifestyle options available. I confess I had knee trouble when I was running every morning in Chicago, so it's not the speed but the balance of activities one has to control. Too much of anything is bad for the soul, as well as the body.
I recycled my collection of flip flops, as they are made of unnatural substance. While their time with me has ended, I secretly hope they turn into filler for a nice warm climbing vest, or better yet, a pair of cross-trainer soles. My rested and restless heart is ready to run again, despite my recovering feet. There are several trails ahead for me to choose from, and some of them rise at a challenging incline. I move a lot faster in my supportive new shoes, but now I'm taking the time to pause on occasion and smell the roses blooming in my courtyard in the middle of winter.
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