Monday, January 10, 2005 Yesterday, I was thinking of walking to a cafe in order to do some writing, but the weather convinced me that that was a bad idea. However, the rain, pelting down in fat wet slaps, couldn't convince me that I wasn't addicted to caffeine. So I had to go out, a Great White Hunter in search of foamy coffee. Thus, I put on the best outfit I could, given the circumstances (which registered on the Ark-esque scale). Cords (which would dry quicker than jeans), a sweater (because my t-shirt had some sort of weird non-breakfast-related stain on it), my supposedly water-resistant winter coat (still damp from the day before)... and plastic flip flops. All my shoes are leather or cloth, see. All of them, except for the flip flops I bought last summer on sale, on a whim. Given the weather, flip flops seemed the best choice. My two-block jaunt went pretty well, all things considered, except for the part where a shin-deep puddle disarmed me of one of my flip-flops, and I had to hurry downstream the river named Santa Monica Boulevard to retrieve it. The passing cars splattered me with the puddle water from which I tried to disengage my shoe, the ripping sound of churning water almost cheery, like low-volume fireworks. I was soaked to the knees when I made it to Starbucks, dripping upon the doormat as I called my order to the dudes behind the counter, not wanting to soak the vaguely dry floor. "Flip flops?" one of them asked, looking down at my lobster-pink feet. "All my shoes are cloth or leather." He shrugged. "Guess it makes sense." That was reaffirming, I suppose. But I have this suspicion that people who are actual functioning adults own actual raingear. I don't plan to investigate said suspicion -- I'm not crazy. But like flip-flops on a rainy day, the thought makes a strange sort of sense. | permalink blog • archives • photos • about • contact This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License. All content © 2004.