I think "nice flip-flops" is an oxymoron.

I think “nice flip-flops” is an oxymoron.

That’s what I said to Amanda, last night, after the show.

She’d brought a group of our professor friends to see my play, and afterwards, as is the normal routine and course for our social troupes, we ambled over next door to the Old Venice Pizza Company, the neighborhood bar and grill, and I stood patiently accepting kudos and the like, something I don’t always enjoy doing because it seems so impratically rote, but I endure it all the same – I mean, I was brought up right.

All the while, though, I was staring at the Pinot Grigio selections. 

I was reminded me of the evening a few nights back, at the Opening Night Reception, when all I wanted was to get to the Swiss cheese plate on the food-laden reception table, and never could quite get to within arm’s reach because people wanted to stop me and congratulate me (which was nice of them), or attempt to hug me until they realized how sweaty I was from all the running we do on stage.

And you just can’t be rude to audience members at an Opening Night Reception…not even for Swiss cheese.

To avoid further well-wishers, I directed us toward a collection of low sofas and wingback chairs in the far back corner of Old Venice. Unless you were lost or trying to get lost, you really wouldn’t see us, I thought.  I was wrong on three occasions; however, they were kind enough to buy me drinks.  I suppose I could have just gone home and avoided the entire public scene, but I think we all know that I secretly was ok with being on display. Actors, huh…

Anyway, we planted ourselves there in the corner. I was exhausted, thoroughly.  This show, fun and rollicking as it is, is not doing much right by my lower back and, I’ll say it, my rather sinewy and muscled gams.

Honestly, I’m not sure how the conversation drifted to the topic of footwear. I never know how a conversation drifts, anyway, I just ride the tide, so to speak. If pressed, though, I’m sure it must have drifted toward feet, etc. after the compliments my legs received. They’re encased in tights the entire run of the show. It’s hard not to notice.

Follow a leg further down, and what do you get? A foot. Usually, anyway.

I know you’ve all seen that picture of my shoe closet. I also know it’s an embarrassing picture, but only for its lack of structure and cleanliness. I think it’s plainly obvious that I adore a good shoe, if I, ironically, am no fan of feet. U.L. told me one time that shoes are one of the first things people look at in an interview. That has stuck with me, but I was still curious about a couple of things: for instance, I don’t know how he knows that or why, as he’s been at his job for the past 45 years; he could go barefoot with string cheese stuck between his toes and no one would care, and secondly, why on earth would anyone at a job really, truly care about your shoes. Unless you’re conducting a business meeting with your loafers. Which I think, honestly, would just be distracting. PowerPoint is a much safer bet, in my opinion.

No, shoes only count when you go to church, a funeral, a wedding, or a bar. And in Mississippi, you’re continuously going to one or the other. Sometimes, they’re all four in the same place, at the same time. Except in a Baptist church where you will only ever get Welch’s grape juice for the blood of Christ, so stop asking.

I tend to be rather critical of poor shoe choices when in one of the four above-mentioned locales. Even of myself. I, however, forgave myself last night for my ugly slip-ons simply because I had, after all, just sweated the hell out of myself in a purely physical comedy for two solid hours. My T-shirt was nearly translucent so dense had been my sweat.

Amanda, though, god love her, should have just known better. She has admitted this, herself.

There she was in a cute summer smock-set, brushed with a fair hint of yellow and orange, just a touch, it really set off her beautiful skin tone, like a sunned caramel, and I was quite pleased at her entire ensemble until my eyes fell to her feet.

Because there, hanging by a dying strap, the thick soles veritably shouting out to the world to be shot, were her hot pink flip-flops. A disaster of the second degree; she has one other pair of shoes that I detest so much I cannot in good conscience even describe them for you here. I was in a mild state of shock, saved only by the fact of my proximity to a good white wine.

She took one look at me and knew she had made a mistake. So, she sat alone in the chair. I, on the couch beside the chair. Of course, our friends Alix and Megan, were haute as usual. I expected that we’d soon forget about the flip-flops, a term itself that is ridiculous, though fitting. I hoped no one else would care.

They didn’t.

Until we saw Alix’s shoes. Purchased in Java, she said, on some exotic vacation, made of a leather so beautiful I wanted to build a whole house out of it. It was molded to her foot, as if it’d been poured around her heel and ankle, with a heavy heel and the most luxurious color, an evening maize. I’d never seen such before.

The shoe looked smart. It looked clever. It knew you wanted to wear it. It oozed sex appeal.

But, not in an in-your-face kind of way: Marilyn not Pamela Anderson.

It’s a good shoe that knows its place and is happy to stay there. I had to bring people over from other tables just to look at Alix’s shoes. She was pleased. In the process, however, I accidentally, and I would say, subconsciously, stepped on Amanda’s foot and she was forced to withdraw her feet underneath the chair, to avoid further traffic incidents.

I apologized. I know it hurt. I have a steel step. Also, she showed me this morning the small abrasion my ugly shoes left on the end of her big toe. It was hard to sympathize, though, as she’d said almost as soon as she came into my room that perhaps she should just throw those flip-flops away.

I told her No, believe it or not. Because once when an electrical storm blew threw town and took out the lights, I used the left flip-flop to find the bathroom cabinet where the flashlights were kept.  Hot pink, you know, tends to have a shine, a glow about it.

I mean, there’s nothing really wrong with the flip-flops, in and of themselves. 

…they’re just not meant to be worn, is all.

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