Ah yes, I am a stalwart sandal-wearer. Birkenstocks are fine, as are most Timberlands, Chacos, and any number of other strappy and not so strappy models. I'll even wear sandals with a heel.

Sandals are simply lovely. It is not like being barefoot, where your tender foot bottom is exposed to horrible hard and pointy bits on the ground, nor is it like wearing the standard shoe, where your foot is trapped in a leather prison, never exposed to air or light. It is the happy breezy medium, in which toes may wiggle freely and small rocks may be removed from the environment with a simple expert flip of the ankle.

Alas, those days are officially gone, when last night I finally had to give in to the threatening cold. As it was hovering around 30 degrees and I had to be outside in it, I donned the treacherous socks, snug and warm though they may be, and slipped on the dreaded shoe.

My feet are so unhappy. The ankle, she aches. The toes, they try to wiggle, but are thwarted. The tiny rocks that can occasionaly slip in are destined to be safely inaccessible to prying fingers; and ankle flips, however expert, are expected to be little use against them. So begins my winter...

And, of course, I can't find my beat-up Chucks, or my beat-up Airwalks, which means a trip to the mall may be in order. I've been thinking about ordering this flirty leather number, though it does not promise the loving breathabilty of the standard canvas Converse of my acquaintance.

My feet, they are moaning, but at least they seem to be looking forward to the possibility of new Chucks.

The only other person I know who wears sandals as often, and as late into the cold-season, as I do is my friend Clayton. I am eager to find out whether he is going to be able to wait for the first snowfall, as he usually does, or if he's going to give in to the cold early, as I did. We've usually had the first snowfall by now...