If Birkenstocks Can Find Their Footing in LA, So Can I
A True Shoe Story
My first pair of Birkenstocks marked the beginning of adulthood. Mom and Dad took me from Long Island to attend CU Boulder. There, it became clear I’d have as much need for a pedicure as a pet pig, but would benefit from a pair of clunky, Jesus-looking sandals it seemed everyone in this Foothill town wore everywhere. I chose a pair of teal green ones, the traditional style with two leather tongues stretched across the bridge of my foot secured with buckles. They didn’t look right with red nail polish, but that was an easy fix.
Depending on how you define “better” and I define it as greater comfort and character, Birks get better with age and I wore mine until the heel of the rubber soles were so thin the cork above it started to crumble. I wore those shoes through graduation, a month around Europe. I wore them through three miscarriages, two pregnancies, one divorce, and one arrest. I bought a new pair halfway through my second marriage. But the original pair sat on the floor in the back of my closet for some time before I was ready to find out if they’re compostable. The new pair was beige suede, the color of my boys’ favorite road trip destination, Sand Dunes National Park in southern Colorado. Indeed I wore those Birks year round, with bare feet, with wool socks, with skirts too elegant for their heft and skirts just flowery and flowy enough. They’ve been to Mexico on multiple occasions, Italy, Iceland, definitely Ikea. They’ve driven more miles across this country than I count, and seen the floors of more therapists offices than I care to count. They raised my boys, walked my dogs, taught a lot of children how to read and fixed almost as many copy machine paper jams.
Over the past eighteen months, I wear my Birkenstocks less often because I’ve started a regular hiking routine. While I don’t wear them to hike, hiking has helped me become more aware of every step I take. What part of my foot bears my weight when I’m going uphill, downhill? If I’ve activated my glutes to protect my low back? I monitor my heart rate to know when to kick things up a notch, or take it easy. With growing awareness of each step, I also reflect on all the steps I’ve taken. For example, I hike regularly now in part, because I can. Because it’s easier to fit in than it used to be when I had a full classroom at work and a full nest at home. The last thing I wanted back then were more hills to climb.
Now when I hike, I leave an empty nest. A relative term—I’m fortunate enough to have doting dogs and a doting husband. Despite all the doting and the absence of children—their busy schedules and many needs—I still manage to fill my nest with anxiety. Anxiety takes up whatever space it’s given so I’ve only given it 1,400 square feet, which as it turns out, feels a little cramped when you and your husband both work from home.
With my youngest now twenty, I recently moved to Los Angeles to be closer to my sister and her family. I look for every opportunity to be with my nephew, even when it means helping with algebra. I write, among other things, children’s books. I carry play dough around in my purse at the off chance they’ll be a child on the airplane or at a basketball game that needs something to do. And I think about my boys, wherever they are, whatever they’re doing. I just watched an instagram of a baby bird chasing a worm with an open beak. The caption said that baby birds are so used to their mom dropping the worms into their mouths they think the worms are just gonna hop down their throat of their own accord. Well shit! Here I thought feeding my kids was the least I could do, and now it turns out even that can screw them up?! I hope my boys aren’t somewhere waiting for sustenance to find them. They don’t wear Birkenstocks, but I find great satisfaction in buying them shoes. They’re adulting now, and good shoes feel like a proxy for my parenting. Somehow I’m still with them, offering support, wherever they’re going. Knowing full well they’re probably sleeping in and those shoes are by the front door.
Just like me, Birkenstocks have made their way to LA. Not the ones I’m used to, flashier ones (flashy Birkenstocks—an oxymoron). Shearling and platform with gaudy brass hardware. The shearling feels like overkill for LA, having done without it for more than twenty Colorado winters. But I’m open-minded. I can appreciate the Everest meets Gucci vibe. Like someone tripped and accidentally slid their foot into a Manolo Blahnik teddy bear. I can see the need, every Bachelorette needs footwear on her trek from the Icelandic Fantasy Suite to her snowy outdoor hot tub. But I’ll stick with the one’s I’ve got. They’ve taken me this far.
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