Ode to Birkenstocks

I think I’ve just stumbled across the oldest thing in my closet – my Birkenstock sandals. They are so old and neglected, that if it hadn’t been for a dusty and crumpled white tank top that fell from the back of my closet into an old box filled with shoes that I never wear, they might have gone unnoticed for several more years. They are stained, frayed, a little de-corked, extremely worn, and even a bit stinky. But I love them all the same.

I’d forgotten about them. I’m pretty sure I haven’t worn them in at least 8 years. Believe it or not, they were a very prized possession to me when I was about 21. I bought them in 1991, the year I met Bill. I was young and impressionable. And he and his friends in Rochester dabbled in the “hippie-wanna-be” culture a bit. And I thought they were cool.

These sandals have been by my side…or should I say “on my feet” during some of the most memorable times of my life: the summer I met my husband, spring break in Padre, my college graduation (party), my honeymoon, the birth of my children (since my big swollen feet wouldn’t fit into anything else), and on countless roads and paths from the tops of Mount Haleakala and Mt. Desert Island to the beaches of Key West and Maui.

And yes, I’ve even worn them with socks a time or two.

So, it may be reasonable to toss them out. But I won’t. In fact, they’ve been placed right back in the old, dusty box of shoes tucked into the back of my closet.

You can’t throw away history, can you?