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Feeling | Jun 26 2002

My feet are wet. They’re wet because my sandals are wet. I only just realized this.

I got caught in the rain on the way home. It was my own fault. The rain didn’t appear so imposing when I emerged from the subway, so I decided not to change into the sneakers I was carrying in my bag.

Soon, though, the rain became a downpour. Stupidly I stuck to my decision. This was where I made my mistake – my original decision was reasonable; sticking to it was stupid. Within a few blocks my feet were sliding back and forth inside my sandals, which made it difficult to walk without seeming to mince. Embarrassed (I become embarrassed by mincing; I won’t bother to explain it), I considered going barefoot, only I was concerned about stepping on some sharp little thing and cutting my foot. Mincing was better, I decided, than possibly cutting my foot.

On entering my apartment I put the sandals in a corner to dry. Two hours later, as I was leaving to get dinner, I slipped them on again. They were still wet. When I returned, I neglected to remove them, having adjusted to damp sandals.

That was hours ago. I don’t remember what made me finally realize I was wearing wet sandals, but once I did, I decided to write this. I kept wearing the sandals while writing to stay connected to the feeling.

Now I can remove them.