Calypso Footwear

The white borders encroached farther down like an invading army from the north: About half my nail was jolted loose from my big, left toe.

I wear my Reef sandals lovingly. Even in the cold blasts of winter, I dedicate myself to my flip flops. They give accessible, sock-less comfort, and I give them four-season usage. And when summer breaks free, my sandals and I are inseparable. The tan lines, where my Reefs gently caressed my feet, demarcate the space between my darkened flesh and virgin skin. I am Odysseus; they are Calypso. We make love on island beaches while all responsibilities are far, far away.

But today, in the glowing honeymoon of sunshine, my commuter bus broke down. With only 15 minutes before class, I decided to run the last mile to campus. This was the moment our footwear/wearer relationship was tested.

Through the urban corridors of Downtown, my flip flops pounded over gutter trash and stagnant garbage water. My open-toed footwear, in unfamiliar territory, couldn't protect my feet from the grime and filth. With my briefcase unevenly chopping my running stride, I contorted my feet into eagle claws preciously gripping my backless sandals onto my feet.

In mere moments, it became clear, though. We were not made to run together. The final realization came when I bashed my unprotected toe on the curb. The concrete separated my foot from my footwear, ripping foam and flesh.

My Calypso flip flops love me casually. Going to the beach, going to the market—those are the lustful trysts captured so vibrantly in my fantasies. But in the real moments of life, away from frivolities, I can only run with functional, loyal, Penelope-like shoes. And, looking down at whiteness of my toenail, I see Calypso is a dangerous temptress: she hides her jealousy for Penelope behind a veil of comfortable beauty.

Happy Birthday, America

I can tell it's the Fourth without looking at the calendar. The smell of bbq traipsing over summer green lawns. Plywood bunkers selling Roman Candles in a dusty field. And of course, hot dog buns on display in the Safeway parking lot.

To be honest, I really like America's birthday. Sure, I'm not David McCullough, and I don't even like going on picnics. But, I celebrate the Fourth the only way I know how: I sit at home and eat popsicles watching Seinfeld reruns...not as a British subject.

But of course, some fool had to go and mess it up. A man grilling on his back patio set off the sprinkler system in my building. The annoyingly loud, putting-fireworks-to-shame siren blared in my building for 2 hours. I was forced to eat my Big Stick on a park bench.

I'm not a manly bbq chef like Bobby Flay, but at least I understand my shortcoming. I don't douse my charcoal in lighter fluid, and I certainly don't ruin my neighbors holiday weekend by forcing them out of their homes.

Watching my neighbors evacuate the building, I counted 38 people. That's 38 people's prime relaxation hours destroyed by one man's bbq ego. Making matters worse, the unapologetic buffoon came outside in a tacky red, white, and blue apron.

I love the Fourth, but American flags are not pants. The date on the calendar doesn't automatically make people good outdoor cooks. And mylar balloons are not meant to be eagle-shaped. Come on people; let's give America a tasteful birthday without fire-related accidents.