My Birks

Stereotypes stick to some objects just like they do people. The gum of stereotype is especially sticky on the bottom of Birkenstocks, though I’m hard pressed to say why.

I mention this because I myself own a pair, and the top of my left sandal finally and completely separated from the bottom the other day, and the right sandal’s top is pretty loose too. They are also falling apart in other places. My Birks are kaput as footware.

I’ve have then longer than I’ve been married, had children or owned a house or a computer or even a tuxedo. Longer than I’ve been middle aged, and several jobs ago. I bought them in Cambridge, Mass., on July 6, 1991 at a place called the Tannery IV, at the suggestion of my friend Rich, who swore by his pair. They cost $80 exactly (tax included), which means that it ultimately cost me (rounding up to 15 years and disregarding the fact that I paid in 1991 dollars), $5.33 a year to own my forest-green Birks.

I didn’t wear them every day, but in warm seasons I wore them outside and in cold weather they would ward off cold floors inside. They went on virtually every trip I took, up to and including the UP last month (though I didn’t use them), and including Around the World ’94, so they’ve trod on four continents. Not once did they make me feel the urge to move to Vermont or overregulate business or become a radical feminist or romanticize trees. They were just good, sturdy sandals.