The Feet of Summer

When it comes to life outdoors, the Husband and I couldn't be more different.

I'm not talking about the trendy, REI-approved, uber-healthy kind of life outdoors.  Stuff like running, hiking and bicycling. It's a known fact that he used to be into all those things and I---well, I've always been pretty much as I am now.  Disinterested.

I'm talking about actual life outdoors.  Like stepping outside the door of your house.

"I can't believe you aren't wearing any shoes!" he told me with a horrified gasp the other morning.

It was about 9 a.m. and we were both sitting in the sunshine, drinking tea on the back patio.

"I just got up!" I said.

This is a conversation that has been going on for almost thirty years.

My husband gets out of bed and puts on his shoes and socks.

Okay, so maybe it's not as soon as he gets out of bed, but, let's just say you're not going to catch him cruising through the house barefoot.

"You are going to step on something sharp! You need to protect your feet!" he warns ominously.

I've never understood this logic.  My feet never feel better than when shoeless.  I feel they need to be free, and it's wrong to keep them constantly locked up in those leather and canvas containers.

So, what was the first thing  that happened when he went off to work and left me home alone with two little children? Why, I encouraged them to do the same, of course.

In those days we used to live in a town where you could fry an egg on the sidewalk on a summer day.  Consequently,  they quickly learned the important things in life.  Like, how fast a kid can move to negotiate hot asphalt, and how gravel patches are best tackled on tip toes.  They also learned how wonderful wet grass can feel on hot, achy soles and, most heavenly of all, the joy of squishy mud in the garden.

The Boy has always joked that he has cloven feet.  And, it's not far from the truth.

The Husband doesn't intentionally step in mud.

Ever.

Mostly because he thinks it makes no sense to dirty your shoes and track mud through the house.

I agree, of course--which is why I like to run my feet through a good sprinkler before coming inside.

"But, they're all wet when you come in!" the Husband howls.

"Not really," I say, "cause I like to drag them across the rug in the entryway and by the time I get to the kitchen or the the living room-- Look! All dry!"

I've always been on good terms with dirt and mud and consider them close friends in the summertime. That's why I raised the kids to embrace water, sand and mud play. In his defense, I've gotta say the Husband supported me as I encouraged them to make their little mudpies in the driveway and the front lawn. They'd pile it into little plastic cups and serve it as the drink du jour in the little kitchen they perpetually played with in the back yard.

But, somehow he's never been able to cross over to the dark side himself.

I think it's something odd in the way he was raised.  His Mom always encouraged them to "stay clean." when they played.  Mine just sighed and washed me off when I came inside.

He's always been good at following rules

Sadly, in my golden years, I have developed a few problems that keep me from going barefoot all day long-- although I definitely manage to sneak in a few times here and there. I'm not really sure why my feet changed  abruptly from the feet that could pad around outside for hours, to the ones that eventually had to concede to  leather and canvas.

Maybe I stepped on something sharp.



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