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.