Desert Daze Haze: Sand-al Scandal

It's broiling, and you're trudging through the desert.  The canteen handbag you brought instead of an actual canteen slaps your thigh with a rhythmic thwack! as you eke out each step.  Sweat slides down your dirty face, and you'd like to strangle whoever said that thing about it not being the heat but the humidity.  You fixate on the bottle of off-brand root beer that you downed back at the taco truck.  Back before you had words with The Twerp -- okay, Antwerp, named for the city of his birth, a factoid he'd proudly imparted while you sucked down your soda -- back before you fled from civilization.  So what if he said that you stole that guacamole?  You had only a dollop on your cardboard-dry quesadilla before tossing the rest to an armadillo.  The quesadilla was supposed to be chicken but tasted like some kind of reptile.  Or at least how you imagine a reptile would taste. Although the way things are going, a lizard just might be your dinner.

Wait, what's that in the distance?  Shapeless yet sprawling, it's the same tan of the sand and at least five times as big as the taco truck.  Something iridescent shimmers in the front, like a pond in the moonlight.  There are letters too, and they swim in your head in an alphabet soup of confusion.  "What does it say?!" your mind screams, your eyes squinting.  Your adrenaline pumps, propelling you forward.  As you grow closer, a kaleidoscope of color floats across the pond, which you now know to be a bank of windows.  The letters come into focus and your pulse quickens; you think you know what they say.  Could it be?  Or is it a mirage brought on by that foursome of heat, fatigue, hunger, and fear?  You take a step closer, close your eyes, then quickly open them again.  That's when you know that this isn't a dream, but as real as anything glittering under the sun.  Your haven, your sanctuary, your salvation.

A shoe store.

And that's how I came to buy these sandals against my better judgment.  Dazed and tired and almost certainly hungry, taken in by their enticing jewel-toned rainbow.  No, I wasn't lost in the desert, and they don't have anything to do with cacti.  But they are an, ahem, prickly pair, a phrase that I've most certainly used here before, given my penchant for puns and wordplay.  You see, they're made of that faux-suede stuff that preserves the indentations of your sweaty toes.  Disgusting, I know.  That's why I usually avoid them like the questionable quesadillas they are.  But when I saw these strappy sisters, I said, oh, I can make an exception; they'll be alright if I wear them with socks.  Like a grandpa.  Or a grandma (because bad style doesn't discriminate).  So I got them and wore them and they looked kind of silly.  Also, they kept slipping off my feet.

Then this happened.

I was going on a Rita's run and thought, why not wear these sandals the way the shoe gods (and Kohl's) intended?  Even if just for half an hour.  Not surprisingly, they were way cuter and much more comfortable than they were with my minty socklets.  And thanks to my shoe curfew, no nasty toe prints!

Who says shoe shopping can't be an adventure?

So here's to getting lost in the desert.  And to air conditioning and Aerosoles.

But not really.

I'd never wear Aerosoles.