the ugly sandals
A friend of mine warned me I would, after living in Seattle
a while, start wearing ugly shoes. Even (horrors) buying them.
Of course I didn't believe her.
Debbie is an international shoe diva. Originally from South Africa, she
has been all over this world. And, continent to continent, she knows her
shoes. When I used to visit Seattle -- I used to visit, before the fateful
move -- sooner or later whichever gang happened to be assembled would
gather at Debbie's for hangover breakfasts. And at some point during breakfast
-- which often resulted in visits from the fire marshal, but that was
not our fault, I swear -- Debbie would whisper, "I have to show you something."
And she and I would sneak to her closet. And she would show me her latest
acquisition. Shoes. Debbie knew I'd appreciate those shoes. We shared
a bond. The bond of women who know shoes are art.
So --
When Debbie told me, if I moved to Seattle, I would not only wear, but
spend cold hard cash on, ugly shoes, I laughed.
And then she showed me hers.
I couldn't believe it.
A shoe diva bought ugly shoes!
Well, not shoes, exactly. They were sandals. Tire soled sandals with straps
made of some fabric that, if it wasn't a 70's macrame' project gone tragically
awry, at best could only be described as bric a brac someone's deranged
aunt might find attractive edging curtains. Thin nylon straps striped
blue and black with odd little flowers on them. What the?
And Debbie owned them.
She paid for them!
Not just Debbie. A lot of people in Seattle own these sandals. These exact
sandals. I see them everywhere. On feet in malls. On feet in theaters.
Even (oh the humanity) on feet in restaurants and pick up joints. (Dear
Seattle Boys, I will never go home with a man wearing these sandals.)
Not just on natives, either. Which you could maybe blame on the water
or alien space rays. But on transplants. Transplants like Debbie. Like
a beaten people, transplants throw in the towel and buy the horrific sandals.
"Everyone else wears them, I guess I will too" doesn't seem like a good
enough motive, though. And so far, no one has arrived at my door with
chloroform and ugly sandals. So I have decided it is code. Secret sandal
code that says, "I'm a native, be nice to me."
Seattle residents aren't terribly nice to newcomers. (They are especially
not fond of people from California.) Maybe this is a way to say you belong.
You paid your dues. You wore the ugly sandals. You've earned the right
to be treated like a local. Only someone with real need could wear these
sandals in public without flinching. Only a shoe diva on her last legs
would bend to the yoke.
And men wear them with socks. I kid you not. I've seen it. Ugly sandals
with white gym socks. More than once. More than twice. More than three
times. Help!
The people I've asked about the ugly sandals say they wear them because
they are comfortable. Who are they kidding? Tennis shoes are "comfortable."
These bric a brac sandals are an offense against God and country. A damnable
sin, in the eyes of fashion gods. A blight on the feet of the populace
of Seattle. Surely they know? Surely they care?
Debbie said I'd crack. She swore I would. Right before she left town.
I'm still hanging tough, though. No ugly sandals for me. Wild horses couldn't
make me. Not even those people at the door with chloroform could make
me. . . .
*originally
published on NiteTime.net
