The Floor is Lava

 Ever heard of sand spurs?  They were what prehistoric man stepped on in the middle of the night the way we step on Legos. But apparently sand spurs didn’t cause enough havoc on their own. No, God was feeling extra cheeky one day and decided to create the Goats Head Sticker. You can read about them here: https://929thebull.com/goat-head-stickers-are-satans-spurs/

When these angry little earth ornaments are in season, you can’t see them. It all just looks like dead grass. And nobody warns you about them. I mean, they may say, “Hey, it’s goats head season and we have them all over our resort”, but that doesn’t communicate the impending struggle. They should have said, “Hey, for the next few months just go ahead and pretend the floor is lava.”  Or maybe say the ground is covered in razors or thumb tacks. 

Fun trivia:  the spiny angry spiky bit on a goats head sticker is longer than the thickness of the sole of your average Croc.  I found this out the second we pulled into a Palm Springs RV resort this fall. We were quite pleased to be at a Palm Springs resort.  There’s so much to see, so much to do.  Any resort in a resort town like Palm Springs has to be special. We’re talking premier amenities here. Hot tub-a-palooza. Hot private showers with real water pressure. Heated pool. A billiards room. An activity center for the kids with actual activities. Oh yes. This place has all that and more. We had made it to the promised land. 

Interesting thing about entering the promised land.  It can be turbulent.  The welcome mat is sometimes like a welcome boot-to-the-groin. Example:  We've just arrived at the RV resort and I’m scouting the sites.  I'm so happy to be off my back side and walking that I do not notice the minefield of horror all around me. Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my foot. I couldn’t have walked through broken glass without knowing it, could I?  I look down to see if I’m standing in glass shards. RV park revelers will sometimes  break beer bottles to celebrate alcohol.  I call it red neck confetti.  But it wasn't glass.  It was something else. Little white beans almost but angry-looking with loooong spikes. I didn’t notice the wide base on the spikes at first. That base ensures the spike goes alllllll the way into whatever is pushing against it. I figured it’s dead, how strong can the sticker be?  Then I lift up a foot and look at the bottom of my Croc. When I say the sole of my shoe was covered in stickers, I don’t mean like there were a few sticking to it. It looked like an entire sticker nation was determined to use my foot as the last train out of Bombay. They were on the run and I was their hostage. 

I had a choice to make. I realized the stickers had the length, strength, and malice to go through the sole of my Crocs. This was bad for oh so many reasons, not the least of which were the points breaking off into my skin. What fun it would be to dig those out while all the other dads are having a rub-a-dub in the hot tub. But how could I escape without causing further harm to myself?  My first instinct was to remove my shoes. Hmmm, probably not a good idea. So I ignore the no shoes impulse and think. After a very critical millisecond of deep sober thought I noticed there was a strip of black top in jumping range. Now, when I say “jumping range” I’m measuring distance based on the jumping prowess I had before I got too fat to bend over without splitting my pants.  The plan is simple, jump to the black top, evict the hitch hikers, declare victory. 

It was the best of a buffet of bad options. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I thought as I shrugged.  I may even have had the hubris to say that out loud.  I can't remember.  So, marshalling all the inertia my fat could muster, I leapt. Now, I say that I leapt because in my mind and my heart I truly did. But in reality it was more of a jerking motion followed by a pitiful stumble, the involuntary passing of gas, and a shuffle onto some pavement.  Victory. Sort of. I hadn’t considered that if walking on the stickers had pushed them through to my skin then JUMPING on them against a rock-hard surface might cause them to pierce my very soul.  Oh yes. Indeed they did. I was standing on the black top with pain shooting through every nerve ending below my knees. It’s hard to describe the sound I made in response. It was like a rage whimper.  I had escaped the minefield only to realize I had brought most of the mines with me.  

There's a level of frustration with a situation or inanimate object that transcends all rational thought.  It usually is born of the diabolical mixing of surprise and pain.  Like the belt loop that gets stuck on the door handle when you're already mad or unexpected hit to the funny bone or toe in a dark room.  You know the thing that hurt you has no will of its own but dammit it felt like it did.  I know goats head stickers cannot choose their targets.  But I'll be damned if I didn't fully believe they had declared a holy war against me personally!  And I had been defeated.

The worst part of the entire ordeal is the mocking.  See, the only defense against these little demon seeds is a thick sole and a discipline of leaving your shoes outside.  But when you don't feel them going into your shoe, you tend to ignore them until you're on hard pavement again.  And that's when the mocking begins.  There are so many of the malicious little bastards on your shoes that you literally sound different when you walk.  There's more sticker than sole in contact with the ground at that point.  It sounds like tap shoes. Every step carries the hope that your soles are thick enough to withstand the constant stabbing onslaught of a truly hateful plant species.  You are now wearing tap shoes from Hell.