"Just try them on," my wife pleaded. "They'll look great."

I knew better. My feet are long, white, and narrow, easily mistaken for a disembodied dolphin's fin. But I was trying. I didn't even like the style of the sandals; they were basically leather flip-flops, and I didn't care one bit for flip-flops that actually went between your toes. Technically, I guess we're talking about thongs, but I didn't figure it would go well to open with a paragraph on leather thongs.

Anyway, I don't like the type of footwear that secures itself to you by wedging itself between two body parts that are meant to go together. Like a bit in a horse's mouth, a thong-style flip-flop really gets on my nerves. My toes, being the gregarious sort, don't like to be apart.

And open shoes in general feel awkward for me. Apart from the total lack of pigment in my peds, I just can't overcome a farmboy aversion to exposed feet. I grew up around cattle, barbed wire, and tobacco knives, all of which pair with open shoes about as well as magnifying glass pairs with an ant. You wear shoes of substance on a farm, something with a shank and, preferably, a steel toe. Inside that shelter, the five digits that rudder each foot were protected. I could imagine the things they did in there to while away the hours I spent on a tractor or a hay wagon. They probably had a great time in those shoes, and here I was, dragging them into the open and separating Big from all the Littles. I had nerve.

But I also had a wife who didn't mind me looking like a farmboy on the farm, but preferred I look a bit more sociable in social times. Getting me into shorts very often was enough of a battle. Now she was pushing sandals?

I slid them on, squinting my eyes against the glare of my white feet. The Bigs got angry. The Littles got scared. But thenmaybe it wasn't so bad.

My feet always got hot on the farm, and hot feet meant sweaty socks, and sweaty socks meant stinky shoes. Here was ventilation; here was fresh air. And when the sandals were allll the way into my toe cleavage, Big and Little could lightly touch at the tip.

In time, my feet might develop some color, I thought. Big and Little could still talk, on each foot. If a tobacco knife came around, I reasoned, there were surely some better shoes to be had. I looked at my wife. A beautiful smile was on her face. We boxed up the sandals and bought them.

And I wear em.

Learn more about this author, Brian Jeffiers.
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