The Optimism of my FlipFlop

While we're on the subject of shoes, let me tell you about my black flip-flop. It's a cheap one, black, that foamy-rubbery substance, no patterns or sparklies or flowers. The kind we used to call "thongs" before that word referred the visible underwear of choice for hoochies. It's on my front porch, and it's all alone. Last year in the Whatever Floats Your Boat race at the Lake Arthur Regatta, I wore my black flip-flops into the water. I'd worn them the year before with no problems. Last year, however, we had a minor problem - we sank. Sank before we even reached the "Start" line, no kidding. So we swam, dragging our "boat" behind us, through the whole course. It was grueling, and at some point, my flip flops fell off. At the end of the race, such as it was, we dragged our weary selves and waterlogged former boat from the water and a woman came up and handed me a flip flop. "This floated by us when we passed you, so we rescued it." Nice of them, to save my shoe. No one had found or rescued the other. It didn't wash ashore while I waited, but I brought the saved one home. And it's been sitting on the porch ever since. I don't know why, but I just can't bring myself to pitch it. What if the other one shoes up this year? Or, what if I get another pair and lose the opposite one? Or maybe it's just the fact that it makes me smile when I think of us, struggling, gulping water, gasping, dragging that ridiculously heavy contraption through the S curve, while my shoe floated happily to another boat and was pulled aboard. It may be smarter than us. By the way, we won the Spirit Award. Come see us this year, we plan to not sink this time.