Ann Cannon: Walking the Tevas down memory lane
An open letter to my pair of Teva sandals,
I know. This is soooo weird. Me! Writing a letter to shoes! But here goes.
OK, so you know my husband, right? Well, here's a crucial difference between him and me a difference that supports my general hypothesis that opposites not only attract, they also wind up marrying each other. (My brother is fond of saying that marriage is a truce between warring nations or if not exactly warring nations, at least nations who get on each other's nerves sometimes, like Canada and the U.S.)
Here's the deal: My husband is charmingly sentimental. He likes to save things programs and ticket stubs from events we've attended together, for example. If he were a young mother with craft paper and a good pair of scissors, dude would totally be a scrapbooker extraordinaire.
He also likes to save his old clothes, and I'll admit it. I tease him sometimes. Why do you keep these things? I'll ask him. Are you really ever going to wear that '80s sweater again? You know the one that makes you look like Sheena Easton, if Sheena Easton had a beard?
I, on the other hand, like to wrangle all the items we're not using, then head 'em up and move 'em out. Getting rid of extra crap is to a certain kind of homeowner (like me) what juice cleanses are to a certain kind of dieter (not like me). It feels great, even if I do throw away the occasional crucial document BUT WHATEVER! We all lived, didn't we?
Anyway, Teva sandals, I bought you 10 years ago this summer. Ten years! And we've had some good times together walking down City Creek Canyon and hiking to Lower Calf Creek Falls, riding bikes along the Legacy Nature Trail and kayaking on the Great Salt Lake. We even went up in a hot-air balloon over Park City once. Remember? I spent the whole time I was in the basket texting friends and family, informing them that I would probably be dead soon. The big surprise came when my father actually texted me back. I had no idea he knew how to text nearly dead daughters riding in hot-air balloons.
We did a lot of everyday stuff together, too, Teva sandals. We went to kids' games and ran errands and worked in the yard. And whenever my feet got hot I could just stick them in the sprinklers and cool off those barking dogs, all thanks to you.
So yeah. It's been FUN. It's been a good RUN. But now you're coming UNDONE. (Excuse me for a minute while I take a little nap. Busting out that many rhymes is hard work yo.) In other words, after all these years you're finally falling apart. It's time to say so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye.
But â¦ I can't. Why? Because at some level I worry that if I toss you out, I'll be tossing out all those memories associated with you, too. Which is ridiculous, of course. Stupid. Irrational. Don't I tell my husband that very thing every time I see all those sweaters of his, hanging out on the shelf like tired old folks in a bingo parlor? Why are you saving those? I always ask. I don't get it.
But now because of you, Teva sandals, I do. Sort of, anyway.
And for that reason, I expect you'll be getting a thank-you note from my husband any day now, too.