I’ve got a new pair of flip-flops.
They’re not exactly new, as they’ve been sitting on my bedroom closet floor for about a year now collecting closet dust. They still had the tags on them, though, and as far as I know no other human has worn them. Until now.
See, on a recent trip to Cancun for a close friend’s wedding I busted my own trusty pair of Reefs. They were black-on-black, not as in the most prevalent of crime in Los Angeles in the 1990’s, but as in the most basic of styles. As in, no style. Because that’s my style: no style. I wear a shaved head that I do myself every three weeks. I’ve paid for a haircut exactly once in the last 18 years, and that was only because I was stranded in New Jersey for another friend’s wedding with a six week growth on my dome that made me feel like a hippy. My flip-flops survived that trip. This latest destination union however saw the demise of my floppers when I busted over a three-foot wall with wet tires and the toe just snapped upon impact. It made me sad for a moment, but in Cancun on an all-inclusive property you can go without for the last 18 hours of your trip if you’re not terrified of the H1N1. So I thought to myself shit, I need to buy new flip-flops, and where the fuck am I going to find ones that suit my tastes? As in, no taste?
When I finally made it home I set about town looking for the right pair of black-on-blacks. They had to be the right type: unshiny, nondescript, as little flair as possible. Now I’m no Jeff Lebowski. I couldn’t settle for a black pair of jellies and just go with them, no. They had to be comfortable at the very least. A decent brand would have helped the cause if I had seen the right pair. But all through the surf shops of Santa Barbara I just couldn’t find the right ones. A blue stripe here, a green iguana there; why the fuck are there sequins on guy’s flip-flops these days? Then I remembered something I had seen in my very own closet and dismissed mere months before.
When you’re married for six years your mother starts to ask funny questions about what she should get for your now not so new wife. It’s never straightforward, like, “What would your wife like for Christmas this year.” No, it’s more like “does she enjoy chestnuts” or “ do you two ever fondue?” Last Christmas I flat out told my Mom that my wife goes through flip-flops like I go through Coors Lights, just to cut to the chase, and so the clever woman that she is my mother sent along a beautiful pair of Tevas with a very cushiony sole in, you guessed it, black-on-black. I thought to myself, well Mom finally scored on this one, because when she sent those silky pajamas in 2003 it just didn’t really fly. How could I possibly think my wife looked hot in these silky pajamas, even if they were modest pajamas, if my own mother purchased them for her? And why would my wife even want to try to look hot in pajamas that my mom bought for her? It’s just weird.
This time, though, I was sure my mom had hit the jackpot. It was right around the time that my wife would have to ass out her current flops. They were dying a slow death, like a great aunt with systemic lupus, and so the holiday arrival through the mail of these beauties was like a revelation… until she tried them on. See, I had gone so far as to drop the shoe size on mi madre, and as far as we both were concerned, nobody could fuck this thing up. But these sized eight Tevas, when my beloved attempted to slip them on, were tighter than a normal sized condom on Dirk Diggler. Dollface couldn’t hardly get the balls of her feet through the straps! And a beautiful Christmas was lost.
So on the floor of my closet they sat for months and months, forgotten more than the last Jack Black movie. They were destined to a life that the fondue set would have led if that had been sent in their place, until I was unable to locate the right pair for myself after my Reef’s untimely demise. I am not afraid or ashamed to admit that when I tried them on that they actually (snugly) fit my wheels. And I am not afraid or ashamed to admit to you that I now wear women’s flip-flops, black-on-black, because in fact they are perfect. In this economy, recycling is the hottest thing and I feel that I have duly contributed to the cause. My only fear or misgiving is that my dear, dear wife actually reads this piece and realizes that I have now admitted to the world that her feet are fatter than mine. Because while she is one of the coolest cats around, there ain’t a chick in the world that enjoys being referred to as fat, in any way, even if it’s just her fred flintstones we’re talking about.
