The Demise of the Birkenstocks

 I've got a relationship with a podiatrist. 

Looking at this sentence, I automatically feel old, but where else are you supposed to go when you have some lingering foot pain? Besides, having a relationship with a podiatrist before you turn seventy is never a bad thing. She was the one, when I was having some foot pain a few years ago, to get me away from wearing thongs and wearing the bloody Birkenstocks. I am a Jesus sandal convert,. I don't care that they are very unsexy. They are comfortable. 

So, I turned up to the podiatrist today, the second appointment in two weeks. She said last time if the foot pain wasn't going away to come back. 

I was wearing my old Birks. The ones that I keep for roaming down to the mailbox, or running down to the coffee shop, or taking out the rubbish. 

They're comfortable. 

My podiatrist is very down to earth. When you deal with people's feet, it's a bit of a necessity. She'd messaged me when before I came in, asking me to bring some shoes I'd be taking with me on holiday. I complied. 

Walking into her office, she looked down at my feet. 

"Those things are dead," she stated. 

"They're nearly dead. I'm breaking in another pair."

"Sorry, they have to go. They are awful."

"But they are comfortable."

"And they are causing some of your foot pain..."

So, after a bit more of a conversation, mainly about how I was walking, and how this was putting pressure on my third and fourth metatarsal, and with a small lift in my heel to balance the load and a referral for a scan, I seemed to be walking a lot better, free from foot pain. 

"And what are you going to do with those Birkenstocks?" she asked. 

"Umm, keep them for walking to the letterbox?"

"Nope."

"Ritual burning? Sacrificial dumping in a rubbish bin? Bury them in the compost heap? Leave them on the roof for the vultures to pick at as the Zoroastrians like to do?"

"Atta girl! And when you get back from Europe, come back and we can talk about getting you some orthotics."

"Hmph. "

So, it is with a heavy heart that I've deposited my very dead black Birkenstocks in the bin. They can't be recycled. Unfortunately, they have to go to Birkenstock heaven - also known as landfill.

I will miss them. Sniff. 

And may the replacement silver pair I have in my Darwin back be broken in very soon. 

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