It’s hard for me to come across as someone who’s admiring your Birkenstocks without coming across as someone with a foot fetish. I realize the phrase “It’s hard for me” carries some irony, but I will keep it there nonetheless. I should specify, perhaps, that—upon first exterior impression—I am a cisgender straight man. I am actually precisely that, but I also exude that, I think. Like when you look at an orange and think to yourself, “Oh, that’s an orange,” and then you eat a slice of it and think to yourself, “Oh, that is an orange.” Except instead of an orange peel and a tangy taste and the lingering citrusy scent on your palms, I wear neutral color clothes (usually), have a toothpick dangling on my bottom lip (nearly constantly), and adorn clipped fingernails that are clearly maintained on a regular basis but never receive treatment that lasts longer than sixty seconds (I’ve timed this, trust me). The same maintenance could potentially be pertained to my emotional well-being or towards my sexual partners but I will only confirm the former for you at this point in time. I also have a beard and an Adam’s apple and—depending on how many rolled up socks I’d shoved down my trunks that day—a bulge in my trousers. So, yeah, an orange.

To add on to my opening statement, the specific Birkenstocks at hand (or on feet, I should say) are being worn by—upon a first exterior impression—a cisgender straight woman. Though, in all fairness, I’ve no reason to confidently assert she’s straight (the “woman” part I can assume with the confidence of a cisgender man). I actually learned this precise lesson a year ago while sitting in the exact same seat I am at this moment. Briefly, it went like this:

I go to the same coffee shop every morning. Often, a woman, around my age, cute, frequents it too. We exchange cordial recognition of each other whenever we see each other—a nod and smile that yell “I am aware of your presence in the far ether of my life and I will be very glad if you remain at that precise location” without saying a word. Of course, in my mind, we’re getting married one day. Anyway, after months of this non-relationship relationship, as we were both going through our morning routine at the coffee shop’s back garden (we’ll get to this garden’s description and cultural phenomenon / significance in a bit), I saw her take out her phone and go on the dating app, Hinge. I wasn’t creeping, it was just in plain sight and out in the open, which I found bold and confident and borderline psychotic on her behalf. I wouldn’t open the app in public even I got a notification saying Emily Ratajkowski liked one of the god awful puns I have on my profile (she wouldn’t like one of my photos, obviously, since she’ll want to signal that she’s into me for my brain and substance and subpar humor, not my superficial natural beauty). My immediate thought when I saw the swiveling black “H” on the woman’s phone’s white screen: Fuck yes, she’s single. My immediately following thought as soon as the app loaded and she was scrolling through profiles of women: Oh.

Maybe she’s bi, though. Or one of the other letters. Idk. Doubt I’ll ever find out. Anyway, back to the current moment Birkenstock wearer.

She’s cute—objectively. We’re also going to get married—subjectively. She initially sat at a table at the opposite side of the garden (which we’ll get to the description of soon), but promptly stood up and sought out a new location, then parked at the table adjacent to mine and sat diagonally from me. Clearly, she envisions herself marrying me, too (that last comma there is imperative, lest anyone assumes I am making the claim she has marital intentions with the social movement against sexual abuse). Over the last couple of hours, this Birks wearing woman and I have looked like a pair of black dots on a die that has the “2” side face up.

I’m sure this, my writing about her, is invasive in some way, but I am doing my absolute best to only write about the information afforded to me within the acceptable confines of polite people watching (I also said she’s cute!). As in, as I look around the garden (we’ll get to this space in a moment) in search of a formulated thought, I never let my eyes fix on any part of her or her belongings or her personal bubble for longer than 0.2 seconds (I’ve timed this, trust me). As I shift in my seat (a bench with no backrest made of five one-inch thick slabs of wood with four equal-distance gaps in between them), twisting my torso left and right in the hope of extracting an orgasm-like sensation as a result of my spine cracking, I keep my eyeballs exactly where they are, so I only catch a glimpse of her when my oscillating fan of a torso faces her directly (for no longer than 0.2 seconds). That’s it. These two passing glances, along with whatever my peripheral vision allocates me as I stare at my screen, are as much as I’ll allow myself to look at this woman. If you think that’s too much, well, go live in a cave where no one will ever see your silly little face.

So, within what’s afforded to me (admittedly, by myself) I see the Birkenstocks. And I’m a fan (not just a metaphorical oscillating one). A part of me wishes I had a pair of Birks myself, but I’m not quite ready yet to grow my hair out and wear harem pants and those shirts that probably weigh less than a toenail and have a collar but don’t actually have a collar and instead of having buttons at the neckline they have two white strings that look like shoelaces that are never done and the drooping v-neck that isn’t a v-neck renders my chest and frizzly chest hair exposed and that, frankly, look like you’re wearing a piece of fabric that 1960s hippies used as doors. You know what I mean. Like, if Jesus—or the guy that works in the neighborhood natural oils shop—wore a shirt. That shirt. I’m not ready to do that yet, so I don’t own a pair of Birkenstocks.

But I do love to appreciate a good pair. (Another quick side-note: I’m not sure if it’s my being a cisgender man or growing up in the era of on-demand porn, but literally everything seems like it can be sexualized. As in, if I read this sentence before the parenthesis out of context, I’d immediately think of tits and/or testicles. Maybe the green bitter fruit, too, but that’s not as fun. Some part of me thinks that the fact that both sets of sexual organs come to mind [are breasts considered sexual organs?], and not just the tits, means my mind is just hyper-sexualized in general and isn’t specifically obsessed with women’s bodies.

Maybe I’m bi, though. Or one of the other letters. Idk. Doubt I’ll ever find out. Anyway, back to the current moment Birkenstock wearer.)

I’m not into feet, by the way. I assume me saying this makes you go, Oh, this dude definitely into feet. But I’m not. I’m not. But I’m not not into feet, either. You know what I mean? They’re just feet. If I’m ever with a woman and she wants me to suck on her toes or lick her Achilles tendon, sure. Whatever gets you going, babe. It won’t necessarily do anything for me, but I’ll be happy making her happy. (For the record, if that does ever happen, and I treat her instep like it’s a popsicle on a warm summer’s day, and then she asks me what she can do to return the favor, I’ll take both her hands in mine, gaze deeply into her eyes, say, “Babe,” wipe the saliva and foot dandruff off of my chin, then add “let’s watch Steven Gerrard goal compilations together.”)

All of this to say, though, that some people are into feet. Credit to them. They know what they want, and they aren’t afraid to admit it. Or maybe they are. But the cultural phenomenon of having a foot fetish is well known, discussed, joked about, and acknowledged. So, if I just so happen to glance at a stranger’s exposed feet for longer than 0.2 seconds (summertime must be fucking heaven for people with feet fondness, which, again, I Am Not), then that stranger may wonder, Omg is this dude getting it on off my feet right now.

No, ma’am. I am not. I’m just admiring your Birkenstocks.

My feet—for circumstantial reasons—are also exposed at this moment in time, though I can quite confidently assert that absolutely no one is getting off on my feet. Actually, maybe. People are into all kinds of weird shit. I know one dude who gets going by watching Steven Gerrard score absolute bangers from thirty yards out.

Anyway, I’ve been told I have Hobbit feet, which I don’t, but I also kinda do. I’m not overly hairy, but I am Middle Eastern and a shade of brown, so, naturally, my feet emit more of a Sam and Frodo vibe than an Emily Ratajkowski one (I’ve never actually looked at her feet but I’m assuming they’re as soft and sweet as the Pillsbury Doughboy except without the undeniable psychopathic look in his eyes). Hobbit feet are known to be Hobbit feet because of their association with uncleanliness, which, I can assure you, my feet do not suffer from. I clean my feet just like any other rational person in the world does: I don’t. I simply shower and the feet get the residue of soap and shampoo and water and emotional trauma that I wash off my body at the end of the day.

The reason my feet are out in the open—and consider this em dash a sexual content trigger warning—is that I have blisters on my toes. I played in this soccer tournament on a scorching AstroTurf field a few days ago in ninety degree heat, so my feet were roasted like tin foil-wrapped potatoes at a campfire: slowly, intensely, and unappetizingly. So, I’ve spent the last few days wearing my cheap (and maybe fake but I can’t remember) Havaianas flip flops in an attempt to air out the blistered area and—potentially—arouse people who have a Lord of the Rings induced foot fetish (I’m sure there’re at least a couple people with this out there. Maybe I should start an Only Fans account named: FrodhoeFeet69.)

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried walking in unlaced cheap plastic sandals after lubing your feet up with enough Vaseline to sedate a creaking door, but, boy, let me tell you, that’s got slapstick comedy written all over it. That little piece of rubber separating my big and index toes has been holding on to dear life as every waddled step I take includes an uncontrollable thrust of weight forward given by the lack of traction between foot and flop. If the description has not been visceral enough, I’ll ask you to imagine trying to walk on an overly soaped slip-n’-slide while wearing shoes made of whipped cream (an image I may actualize for my OF account one day). I hope this description suffices.

It dawns on me, as I aggressively try to describe to you what my glazed and bubbling feet look like, that there’s only one person in the world other than me who will really understand what my feet look like right now: my future wife, the second black dot that completes the die that is my life, sitting diagonally across from me in her Birkenstocks. In her peripheral vision, in her occasional glances across the garden (which I’ll describe in a moment), she’s surely catching glimpses of the two appendages I have the audacity to present out in the open as if they’re not fucking disgusting.

And the problem is that she doesn’t know the backstory for all this. And, I’d argue, the backstory renders my decision to wear flip-flops justifiable. The other problem is that I can’t just look at her and go, I know what you’re thinking: Why is this cisgender straight man’s feet so glossy and why is he wearing flip flops? Then, when she’d glance at me with a look that suggests she’s counting down the seconds till I’d be done talking and she’d be able to pack her stuff and run away, I’d explain the more than reasonable circumstances that have led us here. She’d toss the thought around her head for a moment, then understand the preceding events that have wounded me, and commend me for the bravery I’m showing by both taking care and exposing myself. We’d instantly fall in love, then my deeply-rooted commitment issues and fear of accepting love would surface, and I would inevitably use a metaphorical unsterilized needle to poke a hole into the blister that is our love, deflating any hope we ever had for a happy ending, and the hosting body that’s carrying the poked blister—my body—would continue to rot.

This garden is accessed through the backdoor of this hipster coffee shop in an upper Manhattan neighborhood that exudes low-priced groceries and gender neutrality and a pursue of the arts. There’re mismatched chairs and benches, tables whose stability relies on folded napkins, climbing vines that grow along the walls and fences, and an assortment of potted plants as small as Emily Ratajkowski’s pinky toe and as large as Gandalf’s stick (get your mind out the gutter). The population is mostly composed of young aspiring artists attempting to complete their creative masterpieces (such as the one you’re reading now) on laptops with stickers that indicate support of Democratic politicians or minority rights or both. It’s—so long as you’re willing to embrace/ignore the inevitable scampering NYC rat, which I happily do—an oasis of safety and creativity; a place to be comfortable. That’s how I feel, at least, which is maybe why I allow myself to fall in love with every woman I see here.

But I’ve also never ever approached a single woman here (no pun intended), nor—probably—will I ever. The best case scenario is we get married and have a meet-cute story at this cute ass coffee shop’s back garden, but the most likely scenario—in my mind—is that I’d end up being a flip-flop wearing cisgender straight man who bothered these women who put on their Birkenstocks and packed their laptops and just wanted to enjoy this safe and scenic space in peace and quiet. And I’m more than willing to relinquish the highly unlikely prospect of our marriage as to not risk doing being the guy who spoils that for them.

I guess you can cynically label that last statement as me pandering to respect women’s space and time and comfort levels, which maybe I am, but I think I can live with being labeled as—at the end of the day—respectful.

The real truth behind it all, here, is that it isn’t the Vaseline’s stickiness that’s keeping my feet glued to the ground, fearful of taking a step down a road that I don’t know where will lead me. It’s not my circumstantially exposed feet that are stymying me, either (though they are a handy excuse). The truth is that I’m held back not by the prospect of love, but by the knowledge that in order to ever reach a place of safety alongside someone, I’ll have to be truly and wholly exposed. And I’m not sure I’m ready to look at that.

The Birkenstock wearer left a couple of paragraphs ago, by the way. Not because of my feet (I don’t think), but, presumably, since she wrapped up whatever she was doing. Or, maybe, she just ran out of patience waiting for the guy sitting next to her to get off his feet and roll the dice.

I realize the phrase “get off his feet” carries some irony, but I will finish with it, nonetheless.