You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Jesus Sandals
My Timberland Sandals are chocolate brown with velcro straps. They are soft like a baby’s bottom. My Timberlands fit my feet like a hand made Italian suit with toes.
When I slide my dogs into my Timberlands and my pinky toe says “Aaaaahhhh, thanks for having us over.”
My size 10’s are a glass of ice cold lemonade on a hot summer day.
My sandals have rubber souls that grip the Earth like a NASCAR at Pocono. My tread is tough and durable and give me the cornering power I need when life’s course gets curvy.
My Timberland’s wrap around my bi-ped meat sticks like a leather padded wet suit.
I wear my Timberlands because they feel good, and honestly, I like the way they look.
Should be a non issue right? It’s America, right? In real life, not one single person says a word about my footwear. That is until I see my boys. And then my Timberlands become a topic more hotly contested than Obamacare.
The minute I walk into our Vegas suite, the fellas begin shouting and falling about the place.
“Jesus is back.”
“Oh no you, you didn’t? You didn’t wear those Jesus sandals again?”
“Hey Moses where’s the Red Sea?”
And so it will go for the next three days.
You see this group of guys, this group of metro sexual, self ordained fashionistas hate my Timberland Sandals.
“Don’t walk next to me,” one will scream as we head to the pool. The implication is – if Jesus sandal is seen walking next to him, it might diminish his aura of self imagined cool.
“Do you walk on water,” another jests.
“Where’s your flock?” they will deride.
It’s an on going theme several years running now.
I have tried other sandals, but I don’t like them. Flip Flops? That’s like a razor sharp thong to a soft fanny.
That space between my big toe and that other toe says “get that junk out of here!”
“Wear slide ons,” they will retort.
“Maybe,” I say with a smile, knowing that my 1980’s mentality would never allow it.
“What would Jesus Do?” I respond.
They fall off the couch laughing.
“It’s 2013, dude!”
Not to me. It’s still 1985. Timberlands and Twisted Sister forever!
My feet are sensitive. Tell them they have to wear flip flops and they will pout like a supermodel being told she has to eat something with calories.
The minute I walk into our Vegas suite, the boys break out their smart phones and begin snapping pictures of my feet like Angelina Jolie stopped by.
Is it awkward? You freaking bet.
It’s as if my feet are Justin Timberlake and the paparazzi is trying to get a picture of my quarantined German monkey.
I don’t even know what that means.
One of my buddies sends the picture to his college aged daughter.
Within a minute she texts back.
“Tell Andy he has to get rid of those things.”
Conspiracy!
My Timberland’s are my look. I never think I’m that uncool, until I get around my boys.
Then I am the 5th wheel of fashion. I am the Rick Springfield of foot oriented fashion faux pas.
I go barefoot at the pool and they will celebrate it. “That’s better. Hide those Jesus sandals someplace.”
I went to breakfast on the last day. The hostess happens to be looking at the carpet for lost money and apparently there is a look on her face that one of the guys misinterprets.
“She hates your sandals too, Jesus!”
I look at him.
“Where the hell that did come from?”
“Look,” he points.
The hostess is smiling at my feet as if they have passed gas or used the wrong fork at a Presidential dinner.
“Really?”
She is trying not to laugh.
“You hate my Jesus Sandals too?” I say.
She is paid to make customers happy.
She says nothing more. Her smile burns into my soul.
“She hates those things,” my buddies say falling about the place.
The patrons in the restaurant look up for a moment wondering why people are using the word Jesus and Sandal in such close proximity to one another.
After three days of constant harassment, perhaps the boys are right. Perhaps these over aged teenagers have been conducting a foot wear intervention all these years and like a junkie, I just can’t see the signs.
Perhaps all this Jesus Sandal talk is their version of a 10-toed 12 step program.
Hmmmm?
They don’t really care this much do they?
I don’t really care this little, do I?”
If I know my boys, if it’s not the Jesus Sandals with me, it’ll be something else. They find one thing that bothers them and they blow it up like an STD in a petri dish under a microscope.
So next year I’ll consider slide ons, NOT.
Next year I’ll think about flip flops. Yeah right.
Hey boys. Tell the paparazzi. Jesus is back and he’s one styling Mo Fo!
Now move aside, I got a 10-toed flock to tend to.
Life’s Crazy™