One recent January day when I was waiting for my turn at the pool table, the proprietor of the establishment came in from the 30-degree night wearing flip-flops. I glanced at his bare toes, some of which sprouted a small crop of black hairs, and shook his hand in greeting. The handshake kept me from strangling him: I hate flip-flops. Flip-flops flap against the foot of the wearer, making a very irritating sound: ka-splap, ka-splap. It is a sound that triggers a murderous impulse in me. Bad sound, that.
I’m not sure when I started to hate that type of footgear. When I was young, they were “shower shoes,” and because my sweaty feet stank, I never wore them. Over the years, the name changed to “thongs,” and then they became “sandals.” (I bought a pair of those “sandal” things on Rodeo Drive in Los Angles, California. I also bought a thong at the same time, but it was not a “foot thong.”) When I lived in southern California, I wore sandals, but not shower shoes, thongs or flip-flops: I hated that rubber thing between my toes.
I used to work in the advertising department of a major department store. “Advertising” was the refuge for the freaks — uh, creative people. We wore what was funky and fun, no matter what the rest of the building had to wear. (My second bride still laughs about my “Support Your Local Chicken” banded cuff and collar tee shirt, and lace-less, leather, red swoosh Nike tennis shoes. I respond: “You married me anyway, didn’t you?”) When I became a manager though, I was required to wear dress shirts and ties. Still, I was happy to do so.
Then the store, though famous, was swallowed by another retail whale. The new company — Red Star Department Store- instituted a policy of “business casual.” When business casual was set into motion, I had more dressy apparel than casual clothes. It was a challenge for me to find “dressing down” clothes. But for many others in the department, with the advent of what I liked to call “business bummy,” the flip-flops flew. The dreaded sound of “ka-splap, ka-splap” filled the hallways as women flopped toward offices and cubicles. Note that I said “women” — men did not flip-flop in the business environment. (Stand down! This is not about politics!) The sound of slapping against naked heels rebounded off the walls of the department, despite the fact that the dress code handbook specifically forbade FLIP-FLOPS!
“These are dress sandals: note the rhinestones.” Please. “Flipandalops.” I failed to see the distinction between sandals and flip-flops, except maybe materials. If the thing was made of leather, it was a sandal; if made of plastic or rubber, a flip-flop. But if the rubber thing had rhinestones, it was a “dress sandal,” and not a flip-flop with lipstick. (Wait: that’s a pit-flop, right?) The office environment was no longer my refuge against the slap of flaps.
A recent posting by a friend on a social networking site said, “(I)t’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood!!! (T)he flip flops have been reinstalled.” She was celebrating the return of the flappers, and I am sore afraid that my all-too-brief surcease from the sound — and sight — of flops is over. (Let’s not forget the sight, because we know in our darkest heart that not all feet were engineered for viewing and that some feet should only be shared between consenting adults.)
Winter’s cold and snow are not for me, but there is one benefit to the advent of ice: flip-flops die a decent death.
This column was first published in February, 2011
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