Celiac Disease is Dumb

I’m in the 1% of the American population! Never thought this day would come.

Sadly, not that 1%. The 1% with celiac disease. Way less fun.

Though I have an immediate family member with it, I always assumed the gene skipped me. Not that I ate a lot of gluteny foods. In fact, I didn’t really like bread. Or most pastries. I only ate pizza on occasion and rarely ate the crust. I’d tear off large chunks of my tortilla when eating burritos. I ate pasta regularly but not that often, and bought brown rice pasta about half the time anyway. I preferred pho to ramen, limited my fried foods to tortilla chips and french fries (but only the really good ones), and hated bread crumbs and ice cream cones. After I was diagnosed, husband had a “told you so” look on his face and said that maybe these eating habits were evidence that my body knew. I still don’t really have a response to that.

Best husband in the world went shopping the day after I learned I had celiac disease.

Except that I did drink beer. For a while there I drank a lot of it. My favorites were the malty, extra-glutenous stouts and porters. I got married in a brewery. I had beer art. Getting a beer at one of the many walk-to breweries was the main way we saw some friends or spent a Saturday afternoon. There was one summer where we’d go to sushi with friends like every other Friday, get the big Sapporo bottles and a carafe of sake, finish both, and then walk over to a dive bar and order two Tecates for $5 (in my defense I did split the Tecates with husband). At some point in my mid-30s beer started sitting the wrong way in my stomach. First, the stouts and porters made me feel too bloated. I’d have one 10-ounce pour and be done. But some of those are high alcohol, so I figured that was the reason and I shouldn’t drink more of them anyway. A short time later, three low alcohol lagers made me feel the same. But again, no surprise, three beers is a lot, I should be cutting back anyway. When I found myself nursing a single 10-ounce pour of a 4% pilsner over a couple hours, subconsciously trying to avoid feeling bloated and tired and generally crappy, I thought I’m getting older and alcohol isn’t agreeing with me anymore.

Some breweries introduced wine. Bless.

This thought was reinforced one night when I finished a splash of wine left over in a bottle at home. It was probably two ounces, finished in a couple of sips. I had it with dinner and it was the only alcohol I had that night. Within a few minutes I had that feeling in my bowels that you know and fear and ran to the bathroom. Then again a half hour later. Then again once or twice more that night. I was exhausted and confused and decided to finally go to the doctor. I’d been putting it off because who goes to the doctor complaining that they can’t drink alcohol anymore? She’d give me a blank look, tell me to give up drinking, and assume I’m an alcoholic. Of all the problems, this wasn’t one a doctor would devote much time to solving when the answer was both obvious and something they’d like us to do anyway.

I didn’t drink until the appointment. We discussed the issue and she recommended testing for common food allergies. She also threw in a celiac disease test since I have a relative with it. I left with instructions to avoid alcohol for the time being, though until the test results came back she offered no other plan. Which is about what I expected. The labs came back quickly showing no allergies to milk, eggs, fish, shellfish, tree nuts, peanuts, wheat, soybeans, or sesame. The celiac disease test also came back and, though it was harder to read than the allergen test, looked fine to me. My doctor provided no note, so I figured I’d lay off the alcohol a while longer and see if that helped things. I still wanted something besides water to drink in the evenings that wasn’t straight up sugar, so I got a bottle of zero proof wine, which was terrible, and some non-alcoholic beers, which were great.

Post-colonoscopy meal. Thankful that tacos are usually naturally gluten-free.

But I wasn’t feeling better. I wasn’t making a mad dash to the toilet after every meal but my gut felt… off. I went from feeling like I had my diet dialed in based on my morning poops to wondering what the hell had happened. And why wasn’t being sober fixing it? I scrutinized every ingredient, nervous that a next step was an elimination diet and trying to do a soft version to figure things out on my own. I stopped and started eating different foods for a few months, trying to figure out what was making me feel this way. Eating was making me anxious. Husband thought it might be stress, which I couldn’t exactly refute but was annoyed that stress is the most common answer to women’s health questions, and this experience was causing the stress. Besides, I’d been way more stressed in the past without all the extra pooping. I’d worked through grad school and quit a job with nothing lined up and had to move unexpectedly and planned a wedding while our dog was dying. But now, there was a global pandemic, the absolute worst person we could have chosen was president and fucking things up, my job was taking a toll, the crickets infesting the apartment were driving husband up a wall, my cat had an incurable disease, my rabbit was also having diarrhea, and in 2024 we lost five pets. Oh, and one of my closest and oldest friends was getting married, but my mom was invited even though my friend knows our history, our other friend’s long term partner wasn’t invited, and there was some strife that I was in the middle of.

Little Bear Coffee in Albuquerque had the best gluten free apple cake.

Right before the wedding I got an email notifying me about my bill for the blood work and logged into the portal to pay it. I had a message from my doctor from a couple months back that I’d missed: your test results show you have celiac disease, stop eating gluten forever. I called husband into the room and showed him. We were both shocked for a minute. All this time? How did I misread the results? It turns out that I’d basically read the results backwards. The test was the Tissue Transglutaminase Ab, IgA, and the normal value is 0-4.99. My results were >250. Which is off the charts high. No wonder I didn’t understand how to read it, I’d probably assumed there was a misplaced decimal point. It can’t be that high, right? I learned later that you can’t be officially diagnosed on just a blood test. For insurance purposes, you need an endoscopy so that a gastroenterologist can biopsy your intestines. Only my results were so high that when I did see a gastroenterologist (I’ll write about that day of fun later), he was basically like that can’t be a false positive and you’ve probably had it for a while.

How, I asked? Because I have a parent with the disease and it’s genetic, I likely carried the marker my whole life. Celiac disease is an autoimmune disorder, not an allergy, and the autoimmune disorder was “triggered” at some point. When I think back to what might have been going on in the months or even years leading up to my symptoms, it’s impossible to narrow it down to any one thing. It could have been getting Covid in 2022. It really could have been the overwhelming stress and anxiety I was feeling from 2020-2024. It could have been one of the other nasty respiratory illnesses I had around then (or those illnesses were so bad because of undiagnosed celiac disease?). It could have been a hormonal shift and starting perimenopause. Most people are diagnosed between 40 and 50. I was 38.

Blueberry lemon cake that was gluten-free and may have also been vegan.

Regardless, at least I had an answer and a plan. This whole process took a year: I started feeling sick enough to stop drinking in May 2024, saw my doctor in July, saw my test results and started a gluten-free diet in September, and had my endoscopy and colonoscopy in April 2025. Since then I’ve been as gluten-free as I possibly can, though I’ve also learned that other people’s homes are definitely not safe no matter what they say, some restaurants know what celiac disease is and some think that gluten is the same as vegan, and very few people and places think about cross contamination (I’ve been offered a shared dip with GF crackers, but everyone scooped their portions with their gluten crackers, like double dipping that gives you diarrhea). I’m still not 100% back to how I felt before all this started, but I am feeling better. I’m also better about refusing food from others even if they say it’s gluten-free. I should be getting a blood test every year and if the numbers go down I’m assumed to be responding well.

But this is a dumb disease. Not necessarily because it can be hard to avoid gluten, but because autoimmune diseases as a whole are dumb. Encounter something that exists in nature? Body attacks you. Dumb. Encounter something that exists within your own body? Body attacks you. So dumb. Body thinking your own immune response is something to attack? The dumbest. And it’s genetic and can appear out of nowhere? And other autoimmune diseases can appear after the first one? And exposure can lead to cancer? And women are far more likely to have celiac disease and other autoimmune disorders than men? And the incidence rate is increasing? Who designed this???

I made a lasagna without noodles. 4/10. Gluten-free lasagna noodles exist.

I admit that in terms of incurable diseases, the treatment for celiac is among the best. You don’t have to take expensive medications every day and don’t have to have invasive surgeries. If you accidentally are exposed, the symptoms can disappear within a day (though I’ve heard that some people have lingering symptoms for two weeks). A diet-based treatment can be limiting but it’s fully within my control. Most of the time I feel like I’m living a totally normal life. But there are some things that are a lot more challenging than they used to be: group outings and meals, new restaurants, and traveling. Fortunately, I’m very used to carefully reading menus and food packaging for other reasons, so now I just look for one more thing. And my friends have been so accommodating, doing their best to choose places with gluten-free options or activities that aren’t centered around eating or breweries or even asking for my input. I never ask others to do the researching (except husband: sorry, love, but this falls under the “in sickness” part) and I’ve always been the planner, but I still feel like a burden sometimes, especially because I’m still largely vegetarian, adding another layer of restrictiveness to eating and socializing outside the house. When we went to Hawaii I was pleased at how easy it was to find gluten-free items, even at places I didn’t research beforehand. But I know it’s only because of tourism. We saw husband’s godmother while we were there and even she said she wished that people would either eat the local Hawaiian food or not visit. I’d have loved to eat the local food. Food is a huge part of travel for me, and knowing I can’t partake in a lot of it anymore is a giant disappointment. It also makes me “that girl” now, which I really do hate.

Gluten-free banana bread and a really good mocha from a very touristy coffee shop in Kauai.

Funny, while going back through my old posts searching for something else entirely, I rediscovered one I wrote in 2010 titled Gluten-Free is Silly. Forgetting how I used to title my posts, I was shocked that I’d have believed something like that and embarrassed that I now have to eat gluten-free. Karma is such a bitch! But rereading it, it’s clear I wrote it after my mom was first diagnosed with celiac disease, when I learned more about what it was and how it was different from the gluten-free celebrity fad (or maybe that was never even a fad, it’s not like celebrities are immune from autoimmune disease).

Now? I’m caught between still thinking that gluten-free for funzies is silly and grateful that so many people are gluten-freeish so the 1% of us with celiac disease can have an easier time eating in restaurants, traveling, and buying replacement products. I also now know that non-celiac gluten sensitivity is a real thing, which has probably got to be worse than having a genuine diagnosis because there’s no way to make it seem like a real problem to others without a “real diagnosis”. At the end of the day, if you don’t want to eat something because you feel weird when you do, by all means stop eating it. The quickness with which I dropped gluten is not at all surprising to anyone who has felt this way after eating. Even I used to say I’d eat cheese even if I became lactose intolerant, but I know I’d drop that real fucking fast (it may already be starting so that vegan cheese needs to get a lot better real soon).

Tofu musubi in Hawaii — I didn't even want to try what husband ordered!

However, I also wish that people would be more honest about their level of sensitivity. Picking and choosing which gluten-containing foods you eat contributes to the idea that it’s not medically necessary for a lot of people. There’s so much more awareness and advocacy now, including food and menu labeling laws and gluten being considered an allergen in some places. But there’s still a very long way to go. To share a personal example, ordering chilaquiles: they usually use corn tortillas, but some corn tortillas are secretly corn/wheat hybrids, the chips can be fried in fryers that also contain things coated in flour, red sauce often uses flour as a thickening agent, and the chefs can handle bread right before plating gluten-free chilaquiles without changing their gloves. I take a risk every time I eat out (except for the one entirely gluten-free restaurant near us).

I’m probably not going to make it to China (it wasn’t high on my list of travel destinations anyway), but Italy, Ireland, and Finland are now higher travel priorities due to their higher rates of celiac disease in the general population. I still want to go to Japan, but might have to have some really boring and unhealthy meals and be OK eating from grocery stores. There are clinical trials in the human testing phase (!!!) that aim to reduce symptoms and intestinal inflammation (which can lead to diabetes and cancer) as a result of accidental gluten exposure. My gastroenterologist said he expects something to be in market within a few years, which would be a game changer for traveling.

Brown butter and chilling the dough is the secret to great gluten-free cookies.

In March 2026 I finally had a beer again. I’d found a few single cans of different gluten-free beers at Total Wine (which weren’t gluten-removed or made with quinoa, which for some reason makes my stomach hurt) and enjoyed two at our housewarming party. Let me tell you, that made me so happy. I wasn’t the one person having wine for a change, I was having a real beer, indistinguishable in taste to the beers husband and our friends were drinking, and I’d really missed it. I’m still drinking way less than I used to, I don’t feel like trying to raise my tolerance, but I’m so excited to have options. I even tolerated a gluten-removed beer from a local brewery! Husband and I just got back from Total Wine, bringing home a gluten-free stout, a four pack of my new favorite lager, and a shockingly delicious pre-made mojito that Aisha Tyler made and was there to give out samples. We told her that her collaboration on the Woot Stout back in the day was our favorite and that she had helped me find it. She told us that she wanted to make something that she loved and that solved a problem she had, which is my approach to baking: I’m keeping my standards high and refuse to settle for mediocre cookies just because they’re gluten-free. After lots of trial and error, I cracked the code on a good cookie (cakes and brownies are easy) and can reliably make desserts that live up to my expectations. Now I just need to figure out burritos.

Welcome to Homeownership

You know how everyone says kids are the greatest thing that ever happened to them, and then when you have a kid and it’s fucking hard they all say “welcome to parenthood” with a big grin? Like it’s this joke that they trick you into participating in?

If one more person tells me “welcome to homeownership” I’m going to lose it.

It was day 28 (?) of living here when the oven caught fire due to rat turds in the range insulation.

We’ve lived in our condo for a year now and we both went into this process knowing that shit could hit the fan. Well, literal rat shit did hit the interior components of our oven the first month, probably including the fan, started a fire, and we had to replace it (and threw in a new dishwasher after a two-month long stalemate of neither of us doing a deep enough clean that would make me feel comfortable using it after the gross bachelor who lived here before — more on his gross behavior later). Since then it’s felt like one problem after another which can all be tied back to deferred replacements and the cheapest, corner-cutting flip. Our biggest and longest problem has been the roof. We knew it was old. The inspector said it needed to be replaced. When we reviewed HOA documents it was clear that the roof was original, meaning at least 40 years old. We figured it was going to be a dry winter so we’d try and work on the HOA replacing the roof and hope it wasn’t too bad.

Honestly not mad about having a brand new dishwasher.

It was not a dry winter. The first real rain happened in November, which is not common. Right away, the paint by the front door bubbled up and the next day brown spots appeared on the ceiling. I informed the HOA president that we had a leak and asked about starting the process to replace the roof. It rained hard again in December. Really hard. The bubbling and brown spots grew, and then little drops of water appeared in the ceiling and dripped down onto our shoe rack and floor. I put out a bucket and a towel and contacted the HOA again. I researched roofers and got a few appointments. On Christmas Eve we drove up to LA in the pouring rain, and when we got back after midnight the entry rug was soaked and water had spread all over the entry way. It was so much water, even for how much it was raining. But it rained lightly again just a few days later, while I was in the kitchen making dinner. I heard a very loud, dull ping from the front door, and saw that the water was fully flowing through a hole in the ceiling into the bucket. One of the roofers showed me photos of a basketball-sized hole in the roof, right where the leak was. It wasn’t a leak anymore, just a hole in the ceiling. Shortly after that, the brown spots and paint bubbling appeared above husband’s desk in the office — a far worse place for a leak.

We dumped the water every few hours at some points of heavy rain.

Six months after we first discovered and reported the leak, the whole roof is finally replaced, but not before the roof replacement process caused new leaks (because of course it rained while the roof was off and we had no protection). Now we’re debating when we should fix the drywall. I don’t want to start the process until the next rain, just in case. We've had light rains, but just for a few minutes, not enough (in my extremely expert opinion) to test this roof. The only thing that happened is now I wake up when it rains at night the same way I used to wake up to Chloe barfing. I rush to close the windows, then inspect every inch of the ceiling in the morning. I struggle to get back to sleep because I'm worried about new leaks. I love the rain. Want to move to Seattle because I love the rain. This stress over it is seriously uncool. 

Good news bad news, there’s probably going to be a Super El Niño this year with record rains. And record heat, so I want to install a ceiling fan in our room, then hire a handyman to do all the patching and drywall fixing we need. Hopefully after one good rain so we don't have to also wait too long to do the other things we want to do in the office, and avoid another year of all our books living in boxes.

Second big "uh oh" of our first year of homeownership: roof leak.

There are little things, too. A couple months ago I had a mini meltdown because the dryer wouldn’t start. I’d obviously already loaded my wet clothes into it, but I’d also already started a second load of towels in the washer. I reset the breakers, cleaned the lint filter extra good, checked all the connections, turned the light switch on and off (I don’t know why), and read the troubleshooting page of the manual. When husband came home he unplugged it and plugged it back in and it worked. I would have tried that myself, but to get to the plug we have to pull the whole thing out of the itty bitty closet it lives in. I should have cleaned the exhaust duct while it was out but I was working that day and having the dryer in the hallway blocks access to the office. So pretty soon we're going to have to pull it out again, clean the duct (which we think birds have started nesting in on the outside), and get it back in without pinching the ducting or water hose. It has to be in the closet just right for the door to close and the whole thing to still work.

It’s really obvious in some places how the contractors cut corners, like missing pieces in the baseboards in the kitchen and hallway, gaps in the crown molding in the kitchen, missing board between the counter and wall on one side, random missing outlet plates and gaps in woodwork, random bits of mismatched countertop to fill a gap between the bathroom vanity and wall (instead of cutting out part of the baseboard), and painted over screws and drywall anchors in every room. There’s also the dirt cheap cabinets which started to flake when I cleaned them with a soft cloth and mild cleaner before moving in, cabinets that don’t close properly, and drawers that come apart and/or off their tracks easily. I recently noticed splatters on the kitchen ceiling, literally all over, that need to be individually scrubbed. I can’t use the bathroom faucet without splattering water all over the counter and my clothes (even friends complained) and have to dry it with a cloth multiple times a day. And a few weeks after moving in I noticed a used condom on the side of the garage floor next to an old canister of antifreeze. What the actual fuck was this guy doing in this condo.

Our impossibly small laundry closet in which exactly one washer/dryer model fits.

It’s been a trying few months and we’re not exactly loving homeownership. I suppose that’s to be expected, and the benefits come once this work is done and we can refinance and start to see that mysterious equity everyone talked about (to maintain my parenthood analogy, I assume lots of parents question their decision within the first couple years of having kids, but having a good relationship with an adult child is probably the best). At the absolute minimum, rent will eventually increase enough that our mortgage will be the same as rent for a two bedroom two bath apartment, even if we don’t refinance. And that will probably happen within a decade, which is just so unfair to renters. But it gives us an out someday. Our condo problems, just like most problems, would be less frustrating and more solvable if only we had a lot more money than we do, so if anyone wants to give me like fifty grand that would be great. Or make interest rates go down so we can refinance like everyone said we’d be able to do within a year or two and then we can actually save for all this.

Bunny boy enjoying the balcony.

It’s not entirely shitty. It might be a shitty time but there have been extremely rare times in US history that housing isn’t a very stable and safe investment in the future. If nothing else except my retirement plan (more on that later), at least we can pay for it and do enjoy living here. Which is true: despite the constant annoyances and little things that cost way more than you think they would, we have also gotten to enjoy the parts of owning that we were looking forward to. We bought a small table and chair set and small propane grill, mainly because we needed a way to cook while we didn't have an oven, and have made amazing dinners and enjoyed drinks on our balcony. The amount of natural light makes us feel like we previously lived in a cave. My own mental health is better despite the problems (though work and the world at large are constantly threatening it) and my plants are absolutely thriving, both inside and out. Even my snake plant flowered within a month! Being a light nerd, husband is also loving the effects on the walls and from the disco ball planters and even a glass of water on the counter. We have a skylight, which is one of the coolest things we never thought we'd get, and two baby spider plants are on the wall hung in these lovely knit hangers. We painted accent walls in the living room and bedroom and will paint most of the office. We hung a gallery wall full of fun and weird photos we took and some art we love. We built and installed a ramp in the rabbit area so they can sunbathe in the garden window box (tbd if they actually do). We added shelves for cookbooks in the kitchen. We installed a ceiling fan over the rabbit area, hung blackout curtains for when the sun is too much, and added so much warmth and texture to a previously cold and gray condo.

Could all of this have been done in a rental? Yes, with the exception of the ceiling fan. We painted the very first place husband and I lived in together. But when we had to unexpectedly move out after a year because the owners wanted to move back in, they made us paint over it, and that sucked so much that we never painted again. But we could have, and we could have installed shelves and hung prints and just spackled over the holes when it was time to leave. It would have cost us time and maybe like $30. And part of me wonders why we were so afraid of doing that.

Sometimes the view makes me forget any problem this place has.

Especially now that one of our biggest fears is likely coming true: the house immediately next door is for sale and if an investor buys it they'll build a multi-story property. In the many, many documents we had to read and sign when we bought there was a clause that any views could be lost due to new construction after the purchase date. We read that, recognized the very real possibility that our gorgeous view of downtown could be gone within a few years, and decided to just hope that the people living in that house hung onto it. I'm writing this on our 53rd week of owning, and in half of those weeks sometimes the light and view made the other problems worth it. If it goes away and all we're left with is an expensive condo with half the natural light it once had, there's a real chance these relatively small disappointments and annoyances could turn into real regret. I want windows open for the breeze and curtains open for the light, and we already have to keep the front door closed because of the cigarette smoke coming from the unit right next to us (this guy must have the best genes to counteract all the smoking and drinking he does). If this place ends up a breezeless cave, I'll want to sell at the earliest opportunity.

Even two stories would ruin the view.

Which may not come for a long time, financially speaking. Now that it's been a full year we technically can, but we'd sell at a loss. It's not even worth what we paid for it yet, much less enough to recover the costs to sell and move. So in all likelihood we're going to be here regardless of what happens around us. And in that inevitability, we do have lots of future plans for when husband’s income takes off again or I become a fabulously famous writer (or, more likely, we spend money on nothing else for a couple years at least). Fix the drywall where it leaked by the front door, and over husband’s desk, and by the office closet. Figure out a way to store the cutting boards that isn’t right next to the spice rack, and then somewhere for the stand mixer. Paint the office walls and hang curtains. Add shelving to the office walls for our books, art, and knickknacks. Replace my L-shaped desk with a standing desk to take up less space and maybe add a pull-out chair or small sofa for a guest or reading nook. Add deck tiles to the balcony and install hanging planters in the stucco and the little hummingbird perch my friend gifted us. Paint the underside of the countertops where it overhangs so it blends in better. Hide some cords better. Take out the laundry closet doorframe and maybe widen the closet a touch (probably not possible). Replace my bathroom faucet. Add a ceiling fan in the bedroom. Add a shelf to the garden window in the dining area slash rabbit area.

Marriage compromise: wall color. Totally worth it.

In the very distant future, we’ll replace our kitchen cabinets and drawers with real wood, maybe create a more permanent built in pantry with vertical storage for cutting boards and cookie sheets. Replace the build-in soap dispenser in the kitchen counter with a water filter. Husband will replace his bathroom vanity, maybe even get something tall enough for him to use comfortably. We’ll replace our ancient couch with one that doesn’t take up quite so much space but still fits us both. We’ll maybe rebuild the walk-in closet in the office so that it’s better suited for the storage we need. Maybe also the bedroom walk-in closet to be less awkward and actually store our laundry baskets. Add balcony solar, if it ever gets approved here. Weatherize the front door and French doors, mainly to keep bugs out and help insulate. Fix the HVAC.

I'll never be able to live without abundant natural light again. And neither will my plants.

I knew we were unprepared when we started this process and assumed that it would take a long time and that we could educate ourselves as we went. I also assumed I'd learned enough to at least know where we had gaps in our knowledge. But our very first offer was accepted and we didn't have the chance to fill those gaps. The last year has made it painfully clear how much we didn't know. If we'd had more time we maybe could have looked into the development potential of this neighborhood. There are multiple 8-story buildings going up around us and there's the slimmest chance that we won't be living right next to a construction zone for the next two years. Or we could have moved to a new rental to get out of our cricket-infested apartment and waited a year.

We won’t live here forever for two main reasons: in twenty years we’ll be in our 60s and may not want to (or easily be able to) go up and down so many stairs, and I still want a yard. Circumstances might change, but it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to hang onto the condo when we eventually want to buy a house. Which means someday we’ll have to sell. I don’t want to do what our sellers did and make it look great but function poorly. When we eventually list it for way more than any two-bedroom condo should cost, because that’s how the market works and this is like half of my retirement plan, I want the buyers to feel they’re getting something for it, not just because that’s what two-bedroom condos are worth in the next ten, twenty, or thirty years. I want to be the sellers who get to describe their home as being lovingly and meticulously upgraded and maintained. I don’t want the buyers hate us forever or wonder what we were thinking. And I genuinely want to make smart decisions and enjoy this place for as long as we have it. And if our circumstances do change and we can keep it and rent it out, I want our renters (maybe friends or family) to love it like we did.

Men in Flip Flops

Unpopular opinion: I love men in flip flops.

When we get that first stretch of warm, sunny days in the springtime, along with the Padres caps and the cargo shorts, the men wear their flip flops around town. And I just love it.

Before anyone jumps to conclusions, I want to clarify a few things.

First, these aren’t $2 Old Navy flip flops. These are Rainbows. And OluKais. Occasionally Reef (the younger men, or anyone who fancies themselves a surfer). Men are spending $80 and more on these flip flops. There aren’t too many cities in the US where “high end” and “flip flop” absolutely belong in the same description, and San Diego is one of them. These flip flops are built to last and comfortable enough to walk all day in.

Second, this love absolutely hinges on proper foot care. Trim and file your toenails, lotion the tops of your feet, and wash them very well. Good advice for flip flop wearers of all genders.

Third, there’s a time and a place for everything. That time and place is generally pretty broad for flip flops in San Diego, but the men still know not to wear even the fancy flip flops to a nice dinner.

Fourth, my feelings for men in flip flops do not extend to slides and I have active disdain for boat shoes. 

Maybe it's a calf thing?

OK, my argument.

Men in flip flops signifies a casual confidence (Vogue agrees with my assessment). They’re just out running an errand real quick and popped on the flip flops by the door. They’re from here, or identify with living here, but they probably don’t even go to the beach much. They don’t buy into the idea that male feet should never be visible and don’t care if the sight of feet is offensive. The flip flops were readily available, so that’s what they wore.

This casualness is not to be confused with indifference towards their appearance. These are men who know how to put themselves together (see clarification #3). They’re generally well groomed. They wear t-shirts and hoodies from local coffee shops, breweries, or neighborhood events (every South Park dad has a SoNo chili fest hoodie).

I adore this whole vibe.

I love that the men in flip flops is a sure sign of summer. I love the dads at the playground in flip flops. I love the men wearing jeans and flip flops. I love the men in a beanie and flip flops. I love the men riding bikes in flip flops (though I drew the line when I saw a man on a scooter in flip flops… that’s just unsafe). I love the men who will spend an entire afternoon walking the zoo with the family in flip flops. And I looooove the men out walking their dogs in the cold mornings wearing a puffer jacket and flip flops. The contradiction gets me.*

*Side note: Ever since college I’ve seen people in the rain in flip flops. This is not the same thing, but I love that, too. Flip flops in the rain makes sense. I’d guess that a minority of San Diegans own waterproof shoes, which means the rest of us deal with wet shoes and wet socks when we go out in the rain. (I only technically own waterproof shoes: my hiking boots. But I’m not wearing these out for a city stroll unless we get another hurricane.) But if you’re wearing flip flops, you just need to dry off your feet when you get inside. Back when skinny jeans were a thing, you wouldn’t even get the hem of your pants wet if you wore flip flops. It was low maintenance genius.

He's just a shoes guy.

Dressing like we live in sunny San Diego used to be a mild complaint I had about husband back when he was The Boyfriend. Having grown up in the Bay Area, he moved to San Diego for college and has decided to never look back. Whenever I bring up wanting to live in Seattle, he reminds me that he came from the gray, cold rain and left for a reason (though that reason was more about going to a party school far away from his parents than it was about weather). But it took like a decade of being together before he figured out how to make shorts and flip flops work in a way that suited him. We both strongly prefer jeans and hoodies as our standard uniform, but some of us (me) overheat and it’s too goddamn hot here sometimes. Previously, on the handful of times he actually dressed for summer I got giddy that “summertime boyfriend” had come out. If we’re going to live here, let’s live here, you know? Happily, now he has his own pair of fancy OluKais that he can wear for hours, doesn’t feel awkward in, and even leaves by the door (plus a singular pair of shorts to complete the look). He’s probably only worn them five times since buying them, but still. Progress.

Insert quote about going to a state school.

Or maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe loving men in flip flops is simply a sign that I’ve lived in Southern California my whole life. But I was at a neighborhood fundraiser salsa fest earlier this month and the flip flops were out and I loved it.