I was walking at the park one morning and took my shoes off to walk barefoot in the grass. “I wish I walked barefoot more often,” I said to myself.
Later that afternoon, I was walking down the street as one of my flip-flops broke and slipped off my foot. Unable to fix it, I took off my other flip-flop and continued to walk barefoot on the hot, hard concrete.
It had dawned on me that I had gotten my wish, but I should have been more specific. What I should have said was:
“I wish I walked barefoot more often IN THE GRASS, to my MERCEDES-BENZ, with my pockets filled with WADS OF CASH, while CROWDS OF PEOPLE BEGGED FOR MY AUTOGRAPH after seeing the CANDID PHOTOS OF ME IN TABLOID MAGAZINES, THAT WERE TAKEN BY PAPARAZZI PHOTOGRAPHERS, WHO CAUGHT ME OFF GUARD DURING MY HUMBLE MOMENT OF walking barefoot in the grass.”
That was 23 years ago. Now I’m 29. To this very day, filled with unfulfillment, I clench that broken flip-flop in my hand and feel the scotching pavement on my bare feet with every bitter step I take.