Okay, I’m tired of making fun of myself. I’d like to get back to making fun of my little brother if you don’t mind. (Sorry Tech Support, from Warwick, UK to Hershey, PA there are just too many good ones.)
Capri, Italy, circa 1999: my brother and I were swimming in the Tyrrhenian Sea with our parents, having just completed a tour of lagoon and its luminescent caverns led by a local who called himself “Pizza Man” and bowed his head every time “The Madonna” came up in conversation (which, being that we were in Italy, was quite often).
Capri is beautiful but a bit treacherous for people like my brother who was, once again, rather underprepared in the footwear department. Even though my mother had been harping on us for months regarding the exact contents of our packs (three pairs quick dry pants, sleep sacks, shirts that wouldn’t wrinkle, and exactly two pairs of shoes) my brother somehow missed them memo.
As such, when he climbed up a rock, slipped off and cut his foot (an occurrence that was, let’s face it, bound to happen), he couldn’t wear his sneakers for risk of infection and hadn’t brought any other shoes.
So, being the benevolent big sister that I am, I gave him my sandals. My precious Teva sandals. (I’m pretty sure that this was not done voluntarily, but rather in response to a direct edict from my parents.) I spent the rest of my time in Italy wearing my quick dry crushed velvet capris with sneakers and looking like a moron. (This, mind you, was the fault of my shoes and not my way cool pants.)
Moral of the Story? Do not let your son play on rocks, unless he had a sister who would never leave home without at least two pairs of shoes and wears the same size.