I live in flip-flops.
Summer. Fall. Winter. Spring.
Summer. Fall. Winter. Spring.
There is always an extra pair in my car, several pairs in my closet, by the back door, or stashed in my gym bag. I must have a pair accessible at all times.
Some are average pairs, but then there are others that are favorite pairs.
Like these:
They traveled with me on many adventures, through years of wanderings.
Both single, and married.
They traveled on my honeymoon and explored northern Michigan.
They flew across the ocean to Hawaii where they whale-watched, and walked the monuments at Pearl Harbor.
They walked the beaches of Lake Michigan, and streets of Chicago, Illinois.
They rummaged garage sales in local neighborhoods, and grocery shopped hundreds of times.
But they have finally wore out. Done. Kaput.
They have walked their last and were replaced this week.
Replaced by a snazzy pair of cushioned-sole Nike sandals.
I have high hopes, but I doubt they’ll be as good as my $7 pair of rubber Walmart flip-flops.








