Birki

My family's recently deceased golden retriever loved rhyme.  She adored water, but hated to swim.  She was the most loyal, lovable dog I've ever known.

One of Birki's favorite things to do was to take walks around the neighborhood wearing her purple leash and collar.  She knew the route, and if one strayed from that route, she would pull in the correct direction to avoid being led astray.  Any rhyming variation of "Birki, want to go for a walk?!" got her excited.  My personal favorite is, "Turkey, we need to have a talk."  And then we'd walk.  And Birki was happy.  She was well-behaved and only made bathroom breaks in the barren field on Ashline Drive.

Oh, and Birki loved puddles: the muddier the better.  She also liked shallow streams where she could prance around and lap up the water and saturate the curly hairs on her belly.  I only saw Birki swim once, and that was when she made one step too far in a lake, hit a deep pocket and gave one little doggie paddle to get her back to shallower waters.  I could tell she was nervous.

Named after one of the most comfortable and reliable brands of shoes -- Birkenstock -- our dog was also reliable and a comfort to the family.  She was the most perceptive and loving creature I've ever met.  She was stubborn, but only in ways that made her more lovable.  She will be missed, but I'm happy to know she lived a happy, long life.  I'll miss my Birk Tirk.

Disease of the mind

I spent a good part of today in the psych ward of a nursing home, giving eye exams to those suffering from Alzheimer's Disease, Dementia, Schizophrenia, and other diseases of the mind.

Disease of the mind.  What a horrible thing.  Aside from making an eye exam incredibly difficult (forget "better one or two"; it was challenging enough to get the patients to keep their eyes open); I can't even imagine how difficult it is for the families of these elderly patients.

The first patient of the day was a woman in her late 80s named Helen.  She kept asking, "Why am I here?"  Assuming she was referring to the closet-sized room they had set aside for us to use as an examination lane, I replied: "To have your eyes checked" in a cheerful voice.  After we re-hashed this conversation several times, she changed her inquiry slightly to "Why did my son leave me here?" and I wanted to cry.

Not that this particular nursing home mistreated or neglected its residents in any way, but I could never imagine a life for myself or for others close to me within the realms of a nursing home, especially in the psych ward of a nursing home.  The hallways are filled with confused wandering souls, some on so many psychotropic medications, one wonders if they are completely aloof because of their underlying neurological condition or because of the medications themselves.  Many are unable to stand, and some cannot even sit comfortably; several eye exams were conducted while the patient lay in bed.  Some rooms lend a subtle stench of urine.  There are toys in others: boards that light up and shiny holographic pictures on the wall, that are more suggestive of a daycare facility for toddlers than a home for those well into their eighties and nineties.  I guess there is very little difference between needy toddlers and the elderly who can no longer care for themselves.  Except the extensive medications.

Medication after medication, and they're not just psychotropic medications.  I flip through the hundreds of pages of the residents' health records to include important health history as part of the eye exam.  Medications for diabetes, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, osteoporosis, heart disease, skin conditions, et cetera, et cetera.  While the medications alone are overwhelming, the disease of the mind is what scares me the most.

I worry less about those in the nursing home than those who are their closest family members.  What about Helen's son?  I'm sure every time he visits his mother, he feels remorse and probably a great deal of guilt.  But, what options does he have?  In Helen's condition, it is highly unlikely she could live on her own and probably does need a full time staff to ensure that she is adequately fed, bathed, and medicated.

And the blank stare you get from those who have lost the great majority of their memories: those that look their loved ones in the eye and say "Who are you?"  That is probably worse.


The human brain is an incredibly complex organ; however, it is often only when it starts to fail that one recognizes just quite how astonishing it is, especially in regard to its plasticity and memory capabilities.  This may be selfish, but I hope I keep my mind and my sanity until the end, and I hope those close to me do as well.  I never want to experience what these nursing home residents and their families deal with on a daily basis.

[I AM NOT A] Material Girl

I'm craving material things: new shoes, new clothes, a new purse.  Maybe it's because the wireless function on my router has finally been fixed, so I can now sit comfortably in my rocking chair and not nestled up against the modem connected via a very short cable, which has allowed me to do a little online shopping today (window shopping, or whatever it's called in internet language, as I have not made any purchases).  Or, more likely, it's because my life has been inundated with so many NEW things as of late: a new apartment; a new job with new responsibilities and respect (which is new to me after been an intern for the past two years), a new neighborhood, a new pet, some new decorative things, and many new acquaintances.  I guess somehow in the back of my head, a new wardrobe seems like the next logical step.

As much as I like the song and Madonna, I am by no means a "material girl."  I like nice things, yes, but I prefer simpler things, and usually opt for experiences over purchases -- exploratory "adventure" runs in my new neighborhood, curling up with a good book and a glass of wine (or pumpkin beer, 'tis {almost} the season!), cooking like a madman of my day off, and spending time with people close to me.  And that is why this crave for buying things is truly bothering me.  It's partially the money; even though I now actually make money, I don't want to blow it all just so I can get that Portofino shirt from Express and those crocheted Toms and all the components of the "outfits we love" on the Banana Republic website.  Gahhh.  It's also the fact that I don't really like to buy things without seeing them in person, and the last thing I want to do in the world right now is trek to the mall.  Don't even get me started on the mall; it stresses me out with its crowds and needy preteens and overwhelming food courts, and I can never seem to find a water fountain when I need one.  I used to be excited by malls; now I'm excited by the prepared food bar at Wegman's.  Personalities and priorities change, apparently.

And so, I'm hoping I've blogged some sense into myself.  There's a retirement community across the street with outdoor picnic tables and benches that I have yet to see a resident using (maybe retired people don't go outside???  Just kidding, Mom and Dad).  Anyway, I think I'll take advantage of the nice day and borrow their space to relax and read.  Then I'll make muffins.  And I won't go shopping, or buy anything.  Except maybe eggs...so I can make muffins.

The end.



 

Salt and Pepper Shakers

I used to collect salt and pepper shakers.  While I haven't acquired any new sets in many years, I'm pretty sure the entire collection still rests somewhere in my parents' attic. 

My parents were (and still are) big into antiquing.  I remember taking long car trips to visit my grandparents once a year, taking the back roads and stopping at antique shops along the way.  We'd listen to "Buddy Songs," a cassette tape of songs from Disney movies the entire ride; my brother would insist on playing the "Alphabet Game," a competition to be the first to work one's way through the alphabet by identifying words on road signs that start with the appropriate letter (license plates don't count, fyi); and I would invariably get car sick, usually about 1.5 hours into an eight hour trip.

Whenever we would stop at one of these antique shops, I'd get my hopes up.  I sought the next addition to my collection, a reward for surviving the car trip and winning the alphabet game.  I'd search for the most unique salt and pepper shakers I could find.  Animal sets were my favorite; I probably owned six sets of shakers featuring cats and dogs, and I even had more obscure animals like sheep, chickens, squirrels, and unicorns (if these count as animals).  I had a set of shakers of a farmer and his cow; one of Mr. and Mrs. Clause; one featuring the Pillsbury Doughboy; and a wooden set I believe to be from Morocco.

I was thinking about my collection today, as I was taking the big Morton Salt container from my cupboard, pouring a small portion into my palm, and sprinkling it on my food.  How do I not have a set of salt and pepper shakers in my current apartment?  As sad as it may seem, I have not had a set of shakers in my possession for the past eight years, ever since I moved out of my childhood home.  It dawned on me that perhaps I should acquire one more set for my current home, or visit my parents' attic to pick out the set that will match most nicely with my red kitchen.  It would be so gratifying to stylishly sprinkle these condiments on my food.  Don't get me wrong; the Morton Salt girl is cute.  But, she's no match for the set of bright red cardinals I have hidden somewhere in the depths of my parents' attic.

Weather

It's officially summer.  The expected high of 95 with 85% humidity in New England today ensures all the poor souls who venture outdoors risk the very probable chance that they will melt into a puddle.

Weather is an interesting thing.  We all experience it and react to it.  For those of us unfortunate enough to have fine curly long hair, it makes for adventurous hair on humid days.  It's a safe topic for small talk while waiting in line at the grocery store and an adequate fall-back on a first or second date that is lacking in coversation.

It is destructive.  It is the hurricanes, the tornados, the ice storms that wreak havoc and cause hardship.  No one is immune.  There are many things within the realm of control of the human race, but not the weather - never the weather.  We can't control it; we likely can prevent the radical shifts in extreme weather patterns and global warming if we stop burning fossil fuels and decrease carbon emissions, but I doubt we'll see a day where we can convince the hurricane gods to settle down. 

I do wonder, however, if we could make a tornado vacuum.  A huge vacuum that would hover around a funnel cloud and suck it up into oblivion.  That would be cool.

I, personally, have a hard time staying indoors all day.  On days like today, however, it is too hot outside for comfort.  Most things that I like to do involve fresh air and sunshine, and for some reason an obnoxious little voice inside of me criticizes me when I choose to watch a midday movie or bake cookies instead of "enjoying" summer.  So, what's a girl to do?

Well, blog for one.  Also, run at 7am (and still come close to melting in the already unbearable temperatures).  Maybe I'll conquer my inner demon and watch a movie on Netflix.  Or, maybe I'll find a friend and head to a body of water or the frozen food section of the grocery store.  My only hope is that I'll stay in the solid form, and that I will maintain at least some control over my frizz-prone hair.

 

Big Words

It is so irritating when I have a whole afternoon free and am exceedingly motivated to write a blog about some incredible event, full of wit and insight on life's greatest secrets, then start blogging only to delete intro paragraph after intro paragraph.  It is somewhat intimidating to think that what I write could potentially be read by total strangers (I have noticed on the traffic sources link that I have a few readers from Ukraine and Russia.... By the way, who are you guys?).  It is possibly even more intimidating to think that this could be read by mere acquaintances (you know, those people you shared a bench with in orgo lab or those friends of friends you met briefly at a concert you went to years ago that you're still friends with on Facebook who you actually haven't seen or talked to in five to ten years but see no reason to de-friend?).  Sometimes when I write, I don't really think: I just type whatever my brain communicates to my fingers.  My high school English teachers would probably be disappointed (and might be reading this, because we probably have mutual friends on facebook... Oh no!).  I hope they'll excuse the occasional sentence fragment and run-on sentence.  I tend to blog the way I would talk, excluding the occasional big word I feel the need to throw in, mostly to prove to myself that I haven't forgotten its meaning.

Speaking of big words.  (sentence fragment!)  One of my favorite books of all time is To Kill a Mockingbird.  I know what you're thinking: "How lame, everyone and her sister was at one point in time assigned that book in a middle school or high school English class."  I've read this book three times; the first time was as assigned reading my sophomore year of high school.  But, what's interesting is this: while reading this book in high school, we were responsible for learning the meaning to certain words from its pages deemed "vocabulary words."  Using the words in the context of the story, it was an easier and a more practical way to derive the meanings.  Now, To Kill a Mockingbird is by no means the most verbose novel in the world, but to this day I still associate certain "big words" with its story.  I still recall that Alexandra married a taciturn man, the precise definition of tenet, as given in my vocabulary notebook: "principle, axiom, dogma," as well as associate words like "umbrage," "temerity," and "chiffarobe" to its pages.  It's strange (or should I say uncanny/perplexing/idiosyncratic/atypical) that things like this can stick for so long.

Anyway, I guess today's blog started as a frustrated rant and ended with some thoughts on vocabulary.  I can only hope that my audience in Russia will appreciate my efforts, those long-lost acquaintances may want to be re-acquainted, and my high school English teachers won't be too offended.

Lists

Today I bought a chalkboard.  I've been on the lookout for one because I like making lists: to-do lists; grocery lists; packing lists; lists of topics I feel the need to google.  I also don't keep a planner or calendar of any sort, so sometimes I make lists of reminders: dates of events, appointments, birthdays, etc.  But only if I feel my memory won't serve me well.

I'm really excited about my chalkboard. 

I'm not a "neat freak," but I hate it when I find old to-do lists lying around, especially if I neglected to cross off items after their completion, and even more so if I realize that I never even did one or two items on a list that is a month old.  Now I have a fully eraseable list.  There is no chance of it piling up on my end table; it will never turn into a cat toy, and end up swatted under the sofa only to end up as a point of attachment for dust bunnies.

And, it's in plain site.  I can study my list as I make coffee.  I can jot the ingredients down for a new recipe.  I can doodle, which I sometimes do when I think.  I won't waste paper. 

This is fantastic.

The Orbit

I've been neglecting this blog for quite some time.  Perhaps I've been waiting for some inspiration to write something fantastic and witty and insightful all at the same time.  Or, possibly it's because I've been lazy and tired and maybe a little overworked.  Regardless, I am neglectful no longer, or at least for another few weeks if I so happen to ignore it again.

I don't really have anything fantastic or witty or insightful to write about.  But, I could share the story of the name of this blog, since it probably makes very little sense to anyone who stumbles upon it.  A name like "Potpourri" might be better, or "Random Tidbits That Pop Into My Head."  "The Orbit" makes it seem kind of space-themed, a topic I actually know very little about, except what I've retained from the days of Planetariums in my elementary school gymnasium, and random little facts that people pass along to me.  In my head, I still like to think of Pluto as a planet, because I really like the mnemonic about our solar system: "My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pies."  What do teach kids nowadays, "My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nachos"? "Nothing"?  "Nutterbutters"?  It's not the same.

Don't get me wrong, I think space is cool.  I think there is life on other planets.  I don't think aliens should be green with big eyes though.  I hope they're small and fluffy, like kittens or squirrels, and I hope they don't threaten to destroy other countries with nuclear weapons like we do here.

The name "The Orbit" is actually a little more lame than outer space; I'll be the first to admit it.  Almost four years ago, I had just started optometry school and thought a blog would be a good way to record the process and take a break from studying every once in a while.  But then, I sort of forgot about it (or neglected it, take your pick), and made only a draft or two before giving up.  Fast-forward 3.5 years later to the second half of my final year in optometry school, and I decide to blog again, though not about optometry this time.  I decide to write just to write, because it's something I don't get to do much, at least with much creativity (there isn't much creativity involved in medical charting, and there really shouldn't be, though I do strive to make my exam charts grammatically correct, and throw in a semicolon -- my favorite type of punctuation -- whenever I can).  It was easier to start up a blog that already existed, and I simply did not change the title, more for sentimental reasons than anything else I suppose.  The orbit is the name for the bony structure around the eye.  Cool, right?  Eye certainly think so. :)

Thank you!

Yesterday I made vegan sloppy joes, called "snobby joes," since apparently the fact that they contain no meat or animal products makes them think they're better than everything else.  And maybe the name is appropriate, as they are better than a lot of things, especially sloppy joes with charred meat and ketchup-y sauce and day-old white hamburger buns.  Anyway, these are delicious, and I think I owe a huge thank you to my previous housemates for not only this recipe, but a small collection they bestowed upon me when I made the move to my new place.

Actually, I owe them a thank you for much much more than the recipes.  They opened up their house to me for three months, fed me on a pretty regular basis, directed me to the best running trails in the area, and let me play with and babysit their pets.  They did this all without accepting anything in return, telling me to pay it forward instead.  And while I do intend on paying it forward, I hope they realize how much they helped me out this past winter.  Thank you both so much!

...And I'm pretty sure they'll read this... :)

Thoughts on running

I went for a run today, a jog along an old rail bed turned into a cinder trail, and my mind started to wander.  I never really get sick of running.  Certainly, there are days that my body tells me I need a break and I embrace it, spending my time instead curled up with a book.  And, there are days when my body probably needs a break but I don't allow it, only to suffer through an embarrassingly slow shuffle around the neighborhood.  Running has taught me a lot: about myself, about life, and about random things like which water fountains are the coldest and least dirty in Central Park.

I suppose I officially started "running for fun" in middle school, but my childhood was spent playing games like hide-and-seek and tag and town soccer.  When I was little, running was part of my games.  I learned that it was way more fun to be outside being active than inside watching TV (I could write a whole blog on how ridiculously little I know about TV/movies/celebrities, and I attribute this to never watching TV when I was young; a small sacrifice for a life of staying busy).

When I joined cross-country in middle school, I learned how to balance my time.  Practice was everyday after school, meets on Tuesday, Thursdays, and some Saturdays.  At least three days of the week, I'd head directly from cross-country practice to the ice rink where I stayed for roughly four hours coaching skating and practicing.  I had about 45 minutes of downtime, during which I at my dinner and did my homework sitting next to the heater in the locker room.  And raided the snack bar.  I attribute my Peanut M&M addiction to this period of my life.

Being a runner in middle school didn't generally correlate to being the coolest or trendiest kid (that status was reserved for the soccer and basketball players), but it provided me with a lot of respect, particularly when I could outrun such soccer and basketball players in the dreaded bi-yearly gym-class-mile.  By nature, I'm not very competitive, but running taught me a little bit about determination, and I was determined not to let any of those cocky soccer or basketball boys outrun me in that mile.

Being a runner in high school, I learned a few additional things.  In particular, I learned that running can be both incredibly boring and incredibly difficult.  I reference the LSD runs around the school ("Long Steady Distance," in case you were getting any ideas) and those awful hill repeats on "Canning Hill."  I also learned not to over-hydrate after a few episodes of collapsing at the end of races, resulting in numerous heart tests and blood tests only to establish that I was drinking water in excess out of sheer nerves prior to my races.  I learned how to hurdle hay bales placed in the middle of cross-country courses, to embrace running in the rain, to accept bruised toenails, to successfully snot rocket (one nostril at a time, and never into the wind).  Being part of a team ensured I learned all the words to "Build Me Up Buttercup," the "Mr. P handshake," and weird team traditions like head rubbing and human pyramids and tackle football (the latter I don't claim to be any good at).

College running was a whole new experience all together.  I learned that running in a sports bra is acceptable in most circumstances, so long as that circumstance does not include downtown New London.  I learned to bring a spare roll of toilet paper to large invitationals that only supply port-a-potties.  I learned that solid white and solid black shirts hide sweat marks the best; gray the worst.  College also taught me more about my potential; I could run for a really long time and could be fast if I wanted to be, and that I tended to run faster when I was less stressed about things.  Additionally, I developed a love-hate relationship with bunners.  I swear I run faster when I wear them, but this might be more out of embarrassment than anything.  A piece of advice: don't put bunners in the dryer as it wears out the elastic.  I learned this the hard way.

As much as I liked running on a team, post-college I learned that I prefer running for me.  Grad school could be stressful and running offered me an escape.  I'd go for long runs along the West Side Highway or through Central Park.  I learned the layout of Manhattan by running its streets and parks.  Being in a busy city, I learned to appreciate the parks the city had to offer.  I think it's safe to say I can make it through Central Park's rambles with relative ease.  Running also offered me an active way to study.  I'm pretty sure I learned the entire visual transduction cascade by listening to my biochemistry lectures on my Ipod while running.

Post-college brought other little things: barefoot running, which showed me through sore muscles that my calves were not nearly as strong as I would have liked; marathons, where I learned the excruciating pain of mile 22; weekend "vent shuffles" with a friend, where I began to appreciate how therapeutic it can be to shamelessly complain about the annoyances of the previous week all while moving at a snail's pace. 

The greatest part is that the pattern continues.  I myself may be moving from place to place, experiencing new things, meeting new people, and about to start the next stage of my life as I will graduate (for good!) in three months.  But, my running stays constant, and in that way it serves to settle me.  It is here that I am comfortable, and learning every step of the way.

Coffee

I drink my coffee black with a few exceptions.  Also, while people tend to assume I'm a coffee addict (and probably rightly so, since I've been hooked since middle school), I generally only drink one or two cups first thing in the morning.  I'm not a six-cup-a-day kind of girl.  That being said, I have what I think of as a negative response to caffeine: negative meaning that I do not get all fidgety and jittery with my morning cup, rather I feel quite normal.  It is the lack of caffeine that does me in: a negative response in that I literally cannot function like a normal human being until I'm adequately caffeinated.  I'm not ashamed. 

The occasions where I do alter my virgin coffee with a little milk and sugar (or honey, but never artificial sweetener, which does weird things to me), are of somewhat great significance because they signify certain things about my day and mood.  So, I will mention them briefly here.
1.) If the coffee is bad.  This refers to the standard gas station cup of coffee, as well as Starbucks.  As popular as it is, I just don't really like Starbucks coffee, without milk and sugar to hide its burned taste.  I am a fan of their frothy milk drinks, however.  Chai tea latte, anyone?
2.) If I drink coffee past noon.  I'm not sure why this is.  It might have something to do with lack of access to a toothbrush later in the day.  Coffee diluted with milk leaves less of an aftertaste and is less likely to turn ones' teeth yellow.
3.) If I drink iced coffee.  Unless my morning black coffee turns cold before I can finish it, I think the idea of iced black coffee is kind of weird.  It's essentially the same as warm coffee left in the fridge.  I don't know.  It just needs something additional.  And really, iced black coffee is definitely not thirst quenching; whereas, iced coffee with milk and sugar is kind of thirst quenching.  In the middle of summer, when iced coffee is appealing, isn't this what one is looking for?  And, while I'm on the topic, I have a few issues with iced coffee. 1.) It's a rip-off, especially from Starbucks, where the ice to coffee ratio is far too high. 2.) Drinking coffee through a straw just doesn't seem right. And, 3.) It's ICED coffee, not ICE coffee, however complicated this may seem to the people who make cafe menus.  Adjective, not noun.

Ok, I'm done with my little tangent/rant.

Anyway, coffee is part of who I am, part of my routine, and crucial to my overall well-being.  I'm fortunate that "meeting for a cup of coffee" is a huge part of our culture.  Not only does it make us feel energized (or human, in my case), it's a great excuse for a little social interaction.  With that said, first thing in the morning I drink my coffee in silence.  I consider myself a morning person, but I am not a conversation starter during that first cup.  In fact, if you attempt to speak to me during that first cup, I may not fully comprehend what you are saying.  Please don't be offended; I simply must bask in the comfort of my morning caffeine fix.

And so, I have finished my second cup of coffee this morning.  Time to start my day!   

I've had a song stuck in my head, and it's a good one.  It's one of those songs that ironically the only way to get it out of your head is to listen to it over and over again, preferably with the volume up.  I guess maybe this eliminates the novelty for a little while so another song can creep in there and take its place.  It's on repeat in the background right now.

If you'd like, you can listen to it too: "All U Can Eat" by Ben Folds.  I think I like it because it's about the gluttony that perpetuates American culture, but it's still satirical as many Ben Folds songs are.  SUVs, Wal-Mart, the irony of an "asshole with a peace sign on his license plate giving me the finger and running me out of his lane," are all things we see on a pretty regular basis.  Consumerism is the basis of narcissist America. 

While I do believe there are fewer places more irksome than Wal-Mart, I myself am guilty of purchasing more than I truly need, as I think a large percentage of us are.  The unfortunate thing is, there are many that cannot even fulfill their basic needs.  And there, I believe, lies the problem with Consumerism -- not the fact that we overeat at restaurant buffets or feel the need to buy everything from an automatic car starter to a mood ring -- but the fact that there so many people who don't have access to the basics like clean water, medical care, or food.  We pop hot-pockets into the microwave with a mid-afternoon stomach growl, and there are children throughout the world and in this country who are starving.  I don't bring this up to make those of us who are able to live comfortably or affluently feel bad about their good fortune.  I bring it up to remind people the importance of giving back.  Have your mid-afternoon hot-pocket, but donate to your local food shelf.  Buy that warm winter jacket, but give your old one to charity.  Volunteer.  Don't be selfish.  And listen to "All U Can Eat," but only if you're prepared to get it stuck in your head.

I probably should have written this first

Consider this the introduction.  This is a blog I'm creating simply to write.  There is no theme, no hidden message.  I'm not committing myself to posting daily, weekly even.  I'll add to this when the mood strikes, whenever I encounter something write-able.  So, readers, enjoy.  And, please let me know what you think!

This evening I put on my slippers: old man slippers for that matter, the kind with the fuzzy wool on the inside that overflows onto the sides, the kind that nearly outwardly brag about their extreme warmth and comfort.  If these slippers could talk they'd certainly be superfluous in all they say.

What is it about foot comfort that is so satisfying?  Pedicures, foot baths, massages, warm socks, and old man slippers.  Not to mention pumice stones, toe separators, and minty lotions that stain your socks with their pungent odor.  Now, I don't take my foot comfort to the extreme; I prefer warm socks and slippers to a stranger poking and prodding my misformed toes anyday.  But, I still see the value in these tiny indulgences, little creature comforts as they are.

Personally, I am a foot destroyer.  I've figure skated since I was old enough to walk, I run barefoot on a pretty regular basis, and I have not once in my life had a pedicure.  The only extent to which vanity stretches to my toes is in the form of Barbie pink nail polish, applied mostly in order to create the illusion that my pinky toe is more than a misformed stub sans toenail.  Foot destruction aside, I still enjoy the warmth and comfort provided by my slippers.  They've held up for years.  They're indestructible, and in that way they're like my feet.  Tough and weathered, but still holding me strong.