One of the first realizations that I was stepping (pun intended) into the corporate, professional world this past September was that I had to place these somewhat foreign objects on my feet everyday. Calf straining, toe-crunching, sweat breeding objects. No flip flops allowed. Ouch.
I was so nervous those first few weeks. Ten minutes before start time there I was in the parking lot fiddling maniacally with the straps of a pair of heels I bought at a second-hand store. The rubber inserts were peeling off and I had to constantly reattach them.
My work clothes consisted of a few outfits from said thrift store and a sprinkling hodgepodge of items I put together from my own closet. Items I hoped did not show too much back or leg, or resembled a wardrobe from Gilligan’s Island/Punky Brewster/The O.C.
Surely these people knew I was a fraud. I’m a writer, a beach bum, a stay-at-home Mom. A girl who sometimes doesn’t get out of her jammies until late afternoon. A girl who loves flip flops so much she fashioned a blog after them.
I staggered across the parking lot hoping I didn’t look drunk. Like a fawn trying to get her footing after being in the cozy sheltered womb.
I smiled as I passed my business casual-clad coworkers. Hiding my grimace from the pain of the shoes, the claustrophobia of the underwear. Hoping I at least looked the part.
Four months have passed. I still stagger from time to time. Ok, often.
And I still drive to work in flip flops.
But I am not alone. There are others who suffer from flip flop separation. We slip our heels and toe-covering flats off while sitting at our desk. Our foot-coverings of choice stashed on the floor boards of our cars, waiting to be reunited.
We may work in heels, but we walk in flip flops.
Busted Flip Flops 