I wore my Birkenstocks to work today.

I just want to pause and acknowledge that sentence. “I wore my Birkenstocks to work today.” I should be thankful that my workplace has such a relaxed dress code but, really, when I say things like that, I just add it to the pile of evidence that I’m not a real adult.

But let me also be clear: I love my Birkenstocks. Having reached nineteen years in New York and my forties, it’s pointless to pretend that I don’t like the things that I genuinely like.

Birkenstocks were a staple of upstate New York culture*. My conception of cool has changed over the years but, when I was a kid, I looked up to the suburban stoner: the Grateful Dead listening, hacky sacking, vaguely stoned idols of my youth. I wanted to be like them. Birkenstocks were part of their uniform.

For those of you not from the Northeast, Pacific Northwest, or Northern California, I’m sure you’re scoffing at these dumb sandals. I’ve seen them in movies and TV. Tobias in Arrested Development wore them, as did William H. Macy as a senator from Vermont in Thank You for Smoking (both with socks, if I remember correctly). If you’re a Birkenstock wearer, you most likely lean liberal, listen to NPR, shop at farmer’s markets, use canvas bags, drive a Prius, and so on.

Not inaccurate.

I remember saving up for my first pair. When I had enough money – just before summer – my mom and I went to a specialty shoe store. If you’ve been in one you know the kind I’m talking about. They feature Clarks and Mephisto shoes and their athletic section is entirely comprised of New Balances because they have extra widths. The staff is typically knowledgeable, attentive, and wearing one of the products. The saleswoman educated me on feet and why Birkenstocks were so beneficial (and complimented my arch). I got the kind with the strap in the back and she sold me on some cork care product that I used diligently.

I wore them all the time, even to the suburban stoner Mecca: the jam band music festival. One such festival was called the HORDE festival (an acronym for Horizons of Rock Developing Everywhere, I believe it was founded by the band Blues Traveller, whatever you’re picturing right now, yeah, it was exactly like that). I was rocking my Birkenstocks, shoulder length hair, and a hemp necklace that had a colorful clay bead on it that probably featured a mushroom. I was still young enough not to know my limits with pre-partying for a concert, so, my friend Randy and I actually spent a great deal of time sitting in our seats, resting our heads on the seatbacks in front of us. One of us puked on both of our feet (I forget who) and I continued to wear my Birkenstocks after that. That’s love, people.

When I moved to New York City after graduation, I left my Birkenstocks behind. This was the city, not upstate. The Strokes first album had just come out. Everything was garage rock and CBGBs and downtown cool. Lou Reed and Joey Ramone never work Birkenstocks.

After a while, I missed having these ugly slash elegant Peppermint Patty hippie shoes whose cork beds conform to your feet and start to feel like an old friend after just a few wears. (Also it seemed like more and more people in New York were wearing them.) So, I got a new pair, probably a decade ago. These things last, friends.

My hair is no longer shoulder length. Dave Matthews Band sucks. But the Birkenstocks remain.

And people in my office have plenty of other reasons to think I’m a weirdo.