Flip-Flops are Not Safe Footwear

Once, I didn't flinch at the idea of jogging up or down a flight of stairs in flip-flops. Now I know better. You could say five chipped teeth and a huge doctor’s bill for a spine exam might have done the trick. This is the story of how I lost a friend, humiliated myself, and got dumped—all because of a single mishap involving a cheap pair of shoes one night.

Let’s begin with the positives leading up to the traumatic occasion. I was finally becoming an employee of value as a temp, if that is even possible, and as such, I was getting more hours on my time card. The downside of becoming a person in demand was that, now that I was finally getting an almost usefully sized paycheck, I ironically had no spare time to spend the money.

That didn’t bother me, though, because my crush, Ned*, was starting to notice me, and I thought he was just the best. He was a fisherman I had once taken a surfing class from, and after that, he always seemed to be the guy who was there whenever I needed him. Yeah, things were going so well—or so I thought.

Since my social group consisted mostly of blue-collar workers, we tended to be very busy people, and it was hard to schedule time together. When we did have an event, it was a big deal for all of us to let loose and have some fun. This need to gather was met every September with a big end-of-summer bash. Under the excuse of celebrating my longtime friend Bev’s birthday, everyone in our friend group would chip in and rent a patio boat for the night. We would drink, eat burgers, and sing badly as loudly as we could. It was something we had been doing for years.

Ned knew all about it and volunteered to be our designated driver for the event since he already had his boating license.

The weekend before the party, Ned and I finally went on an actual date together. First, we went to a movie, and then we walked around and talked for a while. I found out a lot about him, including the fact that he had once been married to a staunch anti-alcohol activist. He said that even though he rarely drank, it turned into an argument every time his ex-wife saw anyone drinking alcohol. Apparently, he finally threw in the towel after she sucker-punched his cousin at her wedding reception because there was an open bar.

Not knowing what to say, I mumbled, “That must have been hard for you.”

He replied with something to the effect of being glad he didn’t have to deal with her antics anymore. I guess bringing up his ex put him in a bad mood because he took me home soon afterward. In the car, we shared an awkward kiss, and I hoped our next time out together would be less depressing.

The day before the big patio boat party, all the details fell into place. My job didn’t need me that afternoon, so my friends and I had time to book a spa day at a strip mall. After our nails were fully mani-pedi perfect, we went shopping for some last-minute items.

My girls Bev and Molly joked about how I had to look “hot” for my well-tanned, emerald-eyed man. So, naturally, we went into a trampy store and picked out the most eye-patch-like bikini we could find for me. The only shoes they sold were six-inch platform heels, and even I knew that a night of drinking on a double-decker patio boat was a bad combination with heels like that, so I didn’t buy them.

That night, we all met at the dock, and with Ned included, there were eighteen people on board. As soon as the keg was delivered, we were off.

It was awesome.

Molly brought a karaoke machine with a stack of ’90s albums. I wore my cheap flip-flops, figuring no one would care what I was wearing in the dark and worrying that I would trip if I wore heels while the boat rocked. Bev’s boyfriend, Vic*, manned the grill, while a couple of friends from my old job danced like it was the last day of disco.

The party was lit, and eventually, I went upstairs to check on Ned, figuring he was probably a little lonely.

Halfway up, I was shocked to see Tara*, Bev’s sister, sitting on Ned’s lap. They were rapidly moving past second base. I quietly went back downstairs to the party, feeling incredibly stupid in my tiny bikini.

There I was, sitting on the sidelines of one of my favorite annual events, when Josh*, a friend from high school, offered to help me do a keg stand. I told him I had never done one before. He said all I had to do was steady myself while he and Molly’s co-worker, a bartender, lifted me as I chugged beer through a hose.

At that moment, anything was better than thinking about how my ego had just been stomped on by Ned and Tara, the community college dropout.

My first keg stand ended with beer shooting out of my nose, but the second—and later the third—became fine-tuned acts of debauchery.

I was pretty tipsy, and after some great Mariah Carey sing-alongs, I finally worked up the nerve to tell off Ned. I marched myself right back up those metal steps and confronted both him and Tara.

I started by calling Tara a cheap tart who had gotten fired from Applebee’s for stealing tequila. Then I told Ned that he was a wimp who wore padded insoles to hide the fact that he was short and had excessively long nose hair.

All true.

Feeling like I had the upper hand, I turned around triumphantly to go back downstairs to the party.

On the very first step, the toe strap of my flip-flop separated from the sole.

I slipped.

I went tumbling down those stairs, screaming and rolling like a cartoon character until the metal railing along the side of the boat finally stopped me. I slammed into it mouth-first, and it was probably a good thing I had been screaming because otherwise I might have badly cut my lip. Instead, my teeth took the beating.

I cried as Tara and Ned stared at me with expressions that seemed to contain equal parts concern and, I suspect, stifled laughter.

When I turned around, everyone at the party had stopped what they were doing. I could practically hear the collective gasp.

My tiny bikini had done absolutely nothing to protect me from the nonskid strips on the stairs. The skin over my spine was ripped up and bleeding as though someone had taken a cheese grater to my back.

The party was over.

Ned took the boat straight back to the dock, and Josh took me to an ambulatory care clinic. Everyone was too bummed out to carry on, and the biggest party our group held every year seemed to meet its demise after that night.

At the clinic, I learned that I didn’t need stitches, but the bill was enough to make a rich man sweat. All those extra hours I had worked disappeared just like that.

To add insult to injury, Tara and Ned dated for a few years afterward, and awkwardly running into them while they were on dates was never fun. In a way, I set their relationship in motion by becoming a spectacular example of what no one wanted to end up looking like.

Still, nothing lasts forever.

Since their breakup, I’ve heard that Ned goes around telling people Tara is an unreformed kleptomaniac he just couldn’t save. Tara’s version is that Ned cheated on her at Bev’s wedding with a blender salesman.

As for me, the main thing I took away from the whole experience is that I really, really hate flip-flops.

Names have been changed to protect privacy.