Shall we talk about Birkenstocks? 

Birkenstocks are a far cry from the platforms of yesteryear, a time during which I sacrificed my only two ankles' wellbeing for the optical illusion of height and a perkier badonkadonk. Some call Birkenstocks hippy though I prefer Old Testament chic. They're not the most flattering, sure, and you can't wear them to a nice dinner (trust me, I've tried). But I just ordered another pair, my third, and I couldn't be happier about it. 

In Brooklyn, you couldn't walk a single block without seeing a mother and/or her child in THE UNIFORM-- cut-off denim shorts, striped tees, Birkenstocks, and a Herschel back pack. I don't know anyone in Charlotte, the land of Lily Pulitzer and monograms, who wears Birkenstocks. Birkenstocks aren't typically one's footwear du jour when a neon pink, knee-length, pineapple-covered dress is your preferred sartorial choice of the day. Don't forget the pearls!

As you may have guessed, I don't wear Lily Pulitzer, though I have considered it as my next halloween costume as a Stepford Wife. I don't wear pearls either. I did for a semester my freshman year of college-- the pearls, not the fruit dresses-- and I looked like a real fucking idiot.

Pearls aren't foolish, of course; they're classic and lovely. They are also far too civilized for someone who doesn't brush her hair on a daily basis or ever. But Birkenstocks? Birkenstocks are my kind of shoe. They are for the girl who always appears slightly disheveled, for the girl who has given up on wearing white because-- hello-- stains. Birkenstocks are efficient. Also, guess who won't be seeing an orthopedist before turning sixty? THIS GIRL. 


This is all to say that you can take the girl out of Brooklyn, but maybe more of Brooklyn stayed with the girl than she ever expected.