I blew out my flip-flop.
No pop top.
No cut heel.
No booze in the blender.
I guess that's not exactly Margaritaville. But I sang that song all the way home.
I had to run to the store the other day for some eggs. Since it was just a run-in, run-out situation, I slipped on my old flip flops that have made a permanent residence by my front door. They're the kind of shoes that you don't really want to go out in but you always slip on to take out the garbage or go get the mail.
I grabbed my wallet and keys and was headed to the car. Before I got to the car I talked myself out of driving. There is a Kroger within walking distance of my apartment. I always walk if the groceries are carry-able. I wasn't going to walk this time because it was hot and I was whiny. But driving makes me feel lazy and wasteful and lame. So I made a quick change of plans and walked in my cruddy old flip-flops.
Somewhere between check out and leaving the store, I blew out my flip flop. One flip I was fine, but by flop I about face planted it. I caught my balance and didn't actually hit the floor. At that point I still had to walk all the way home. Walking in a busted shoe didn't work. I decided to walk home hippie-style and take them both off, but the asphalt was HOT. So I walked with one flip flop and one bare foot. It was horribly awkward. All the Kroger employees on their smoke break seemed to be having a good laugh at my expense.
Kroger never seemed so far away.