This is a story about why you should not wear sandals to dinner, especially Birkenstocks.
I do not own a pair of Birkenstocks, but Evan wears them all summer long with a pair of cargo shorts. My usual footwear item of choice is a stiletto, but on occasions when we are walking somewhere that is over a mile away, I will put on a pair of gladiator sandals (pending pedicure of course).
Our visit to Café Caturra (5811 Grove Ave) was one of those times.
Here is what I was thinking: “Why not walk to dinner on a beautiful Wednesday evening? The restaurant is just about a mile away. We can have a couple glasses of wine, perhaps a little nosh. This is our time to live it up! We are young, childless and free! We can drink on a weekday if we want to and stumble home after the sun goes down. Let’s make this a night to remember!”
In most cases this would have been a perfectly acceptable plan, but in this case, it was a terrible terrible idea.
Do you know what happens when you are sipping a dry rose, enjoying lettuce wraps, grilled shrimp and a delightful chicken salad sandwich? You totally forget that your brother’s apartment is being featured on a new show, Celebrities at Home, on the HGTV. Then when you get your check you remember that the show starts at 8:00pm and it is 7:51pm and then you have to run home, literally!
Running in sandals down Patterson Avenue sucks worse than drunk walking your bike home from the Virginia Historical Society, and I should know. Evan kept losing his Birkenstock and having to hop on one leg back to the sandal that flicked off on the side of the road. I wasn’t slowing down to wait for him. My gladiators were strapped on tight. In my head I looked like a Greek Olympian gliding like an gazelle in long strides, but in reality I probably looked more like George Clooney running in The Descendants, minus the 5 o’clock shadow.
I wonder what we must have looked like to passers by. Two people running like we were being chased by a pack of wild dogs, wearing sandals (and a sun dress, me not Evan, he was wearing cargo shorts) down the sidewalk in an otherwise suburban-like setting at 8:00pm. I bet they thought we stole something. I’m surprised no one tried to stop us and make a citizen’s arrest.
We made it to the TV a little after 8:00 sweating and panting with seriously sore feet. My wine buzz was totally gone. Bummer.
Luckily, they were still showing Paula Dean’s house and we didn’t miss anything important. My brother’s NYC apartment was the last apartment to be shown, which means we could have totally walked home in a casual fashion instead of sprinting in sandals.
My mother called during a commercial and said into the phone, “Isn’t this exciting?” Yes it is, Mom, forget the TV feature, I ran my own personal record mile in Nine West sandals after two glasses of wine!