It hardly seems possible on this cold drear Monday morning, but I did get to wear flip flops this past weekend. Not only did I wear flip flops, but I hauled out my flip flop collection. During what I consider flip flop season, I keep all my flip flops stacked in a [large] wicker basket for handy access and retrieval.And this weekend, as I flip flopped around the hermitage opening windows to bird song and pollen, I found myself falling in love all over again with this onomatopoeic footwear. Yes, I love flip flops, something that should be obvious, especially if you note the number of times I've used the term "flip flop" thus far. Flip flop. There it is again!
What accounts for my midlife infatuation with flip flops? Spending too many formative years wearing Buster Brown lace-up Oxfords in cordovan-colored leather is one likely explanation. Or, perhaps all the 30-something years I wore 2.5" spiked heeled power pumps to go with my power suits. Or, even the yoga years I spent traipsing around barefooted to stay grounded and non-obtrusively present in and out of the ashram.
Once I discovered them, flip flops became the obvious corrective to these life experiences; offering all the freedom of walking around without shoes with the added benefit of silly sound effects. And no, I do not wear flip flops in church. For now, I choose to leave that form of self-expression to altar servers.
