Goody No-Shoes

If there’s one thing you never see in the history books lining your impressive home library, it’s images of early humans lacing up an expensive pair of sneakers for an early morning jog through the neighboring chaparral. They don’t wear shoes. And neither, mind you, do the predators salivating all around them at the sight of sun-scorched flesh. Cheetahs have always understood that the moment they don a pair of Asics, the jig is up. Their status as unassailable speedster of the animal kingdom becomes as dubious as a streak of steroid-induced acne stretching across Mark McGwire’s back like a comet sparkling across the night sky.  

It’s in this spirit that I’ve taken to removing my shoes in nearly every situation. I shop for groceries without a pointless pair of Nikes ruining the experience. I never appreciated the feeling of cold linoleum in public spaces until now. I press the clutch in bare feet. I race along the sidewalk, chasing squirrels up London planes. They’re on notice – for I’m no longer weighed down by unnecessary Reeboks and idiotic New Balances. I’m suddenly and unapologetically free.

Before we get any further along, I want to make one thing absolutely clear: I’m not wearing socks either. Socks are a most ineffectual article of clothing. They neither protect your feet nor promote your fashion sense. They are a waste.

Yet it’s not all smooth ambling for someone of such prodigious walking habits. I take risks. And with risks, come repercussions. The other day I was refinishing my 3000 square foot tiered backyard deck when a mishap arose. There’s a former nature preserve in Northern California that became a parking lot after supplying my lumber. But I don’t want to get sidetracked on my deep-seated hatred of trees. Let’s leave that for another time.

I was out sanding the redwood on the deck’s western wing or as I like to call it “sunset alley” when I felt something sting. It wasn’t a scorpion or anything rodential. A splinter the size of a small dog poking through the heel of my foot. I knew this day would come. When my dream of a shoeless society would come face-to-foot with a skin-tingling splinter. I couldn’t stop now. The exterior still required six more hours of meticulous pressure treating. What would I let rot first? My foot or my gazebo? Thankfully, that's a choice I didn't have to make.

Thanks to Long John Sliver’s splinter remover, with ointment that’s out of sight and tools that would make Batman blush, I’m back in the game, dancing a barefoot two-step with a deck that looks like new. Thanks, Long John Sliver. Who ever said pirates aren’t compassionate, obviously never met you.