Birkenstocks = No Dates

Tess,

You think you already knew why Birks don't equal dates, but you don't.

Let's just get the first part on the table so we can move on: they are ugly. Really ugly. They make all feet that don them look ugly. When I think Birkenstock in my head, I have three images:

1. Clammy, hairy stark white male feet attached to a skinny, slumpy, clammy, stake white male


2. Dark, dirty feet worn by hippy and/or fake-poor college student (note: Birks are not cheap and therefore, that "poor" college student has rich parents.


3. Fuzzy-socked feet attached to cool, folksy, art-teacher nun who would leave the order after 10 to 15 years and many awesome clay pots and art projects.

None of these are images couple easily with the idea of dating. So when on, or looking for, a date, you don't wear them. Unless you want to date one of those listed above and, if so, you're on your own.

But just because they are fugly doesn't mean they are not very comfortable (and not in a disgusting, cheap-arse, slimy croc kind of a way. crocs are cool NEVER). In fact, this is a remarkably well-made shoe that will, after consistent use, mold to your foot so that the shoe will only fit your foot and it fits perfectly. Uber comfortable. I'll acknowledge that. I appreciate it. Sort of.

Anyway.

When I was in college I got a pair. This was during the week I decided I was cool and granola, wearing nothing but baggy jeans and really awesome wool sweaters and no makeup and never do my hair. It was an ugly week. Literally. No dates.

Years later, after a day of marching around in 4" heels, I decided I was going to head out to Borders. Borders, as I imagined it then, was where I would meet Mr. Right. I would be browsing my section and he would come in, think I'm awesomely intelligent, interesting, and wonderful. We would strike up a conversation, I would be witty and calm and not at all the trainwreck I usually was when a boy talked to me.

But my feet hurt.

And there were my purple Birks. Waiting for me. "We're comfortable and flat and we'll hug your feet even though you didn't wear us long enough to break us in."

"No. You are ugly," I said.

"You are mean. And we have character. And those 4" heels look like you are trying too hard. Boys don't like that. Be the cool chick who doesn't need the fabulous shoes."

"I don't need them. I like them."

Right then, my feet entered the conversation, "We hate them. Uggs! Birks! Flip flops! More of those."

"Shut up," I said.

"We'll revolt."

"What?"

"We'll revolt. We'll trip over ourselves and you'll fall down."

I pondered this. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Often. We dislike a lot of your shoes. But if you want to not meet a guy after you fall down because you'll have to immediately leave, fine with us..."

"Please! We want to go outside! We want to see the world! We won't embarrass you!" The Birks pleaded.

I'm only human. Under pleading and threats, I gave in.

And I was somewhat right about Mr. Right. You see, Tess, there was a guy in the same area I was. He was attractive, well-dressed, the right age, the right height, and thumbing through good books. I moved a little closer, ready for us to start talking which would then lead to, "Oh, let's get some coffee in the cafe." And then, "Can I call you?" And then a mortgage payment and dogs.

But as I stepped over to him in my 'We won't embarrass you' Birkenstck, something truly awful happened. As I stepped to within three feet of him, there came through the warm silence the one sound you just don't ever want to come through warm silence: fart sound.

FART SOUND IN THE SILENCE.

And, I'm afraid, it was from me.

I saw him shift his eyes a bit to the right, clearly letting me know I was gross, he was not, and he knew what I just did. I didn't move. He slowly ambled away. Mr. Right: Gone.

Now, there's a reason why I didn't move. I didn't fart.

I foot-farted.

Foot-farting is the sound that your arch makes as it pushes the air out from between your foot and the sole of your leather and cork shoe.

A sound that is particularly prevalent among Birkenstock because of how they are made.

A sound that will not get you a mortgage and dogs.

A sound that doomed those Birks to the back of my closet.

A sound that is highly entertaining when you are bored and home alone on a Tuesday afternoon.

A SOUND OF CONSPIRACY AND BETRAYAL BETWEEN THE BIRKS AND MY FEET.