Some habits persist, and some come and go.
Although my driving instructor bud tells me it's terribly dangerous, I must confess that I've been creating a new habit over the past few months: driving unshod. I can't seem to get home through the all-too-long afternoon commute with my shoes still on.
Really, this is just an extension of my lifelong practice of eschewing shoes as often as I can. As a kid, I would refuse shoes to ridiculous levels: Hey! Let's see which barefoot kid can stand on the oven-hot Texas summer baked concrete the longest! Hey! Let's walk barefoot across Grandaddy's cow pasture full of torturous stickers to get to the pony that lives next door! How about over and over, for years!? I'm not quite that ridiculous about it anymore, but even now, the callouses on my feet are probably at least 1/4 inch thick (which was my handy excuse to the adult remedial involuntary driving lesson -- "my feet are like shoes").
Fifteen or twenty seconds after I plop down in the Prius, I pop on Sportsradio 1310 The Ticket because it amuses me, and pop off mis zapatos, nestling them to the left, well away from the gas and brake. In Dallas, one's car is such a second home that you might hang curtains or art, and I think that's why I do this, reveling in the comfort and airy deliciousness of having nothing on my feet. I speed or plod along with the shiny, unending flow of all the other machines, trying to maintain my space cushion fore and aft. Because my feet are broad and strong, I often brake with only my right big toe. A ton or so of glass, plastic and steel, gradually halted by one capable digit. (Come to think of it, maybe that part is dangerous.)
Is it illegal? I don't know. What I do know is that while I am entrapped in traffic, my feet are unfettered and free, and in that way, I am a little bit closer to being home.