OP-ED: I Don’t Care About Romance I Care About Platform Sandals

Listen up. I literally do not care who you are or what your name is. 

I don’t care if you bring me to your frat’s date night, and I don’t care if you remember my birthday. 

I do not care if you drop down from the sky with a parachute and 1,000 red roses. I do not care if you tattoo my name across your forehead (please don’t do this).

I care about platform sandals. 

Chunky white Tevas that look like marshmallows and feel like clouds. Big plastic jelly shoes that mark the resurgence of infantilization. Birkenstocks thick enough to be a portable cork board. 

Platform sandals don’t complain. Platform sandals don’t get jealous. Platform sandals don’t ask if I’m “up” at 3 a.m. on a Monday. Platform sandals are just along for the ride.

So back off—the only thing I want weighing me down are the cinderblocks attached to the soles of my feet.