But you know what? I love Crocs. Yeah. I said it. I LOVE CROCS AND I WON'T BE ASHAMED ANYMORE. I'm fully aware this is a case when haters just gonna hate, but hear me out. And before you start leaving lit paper bags of dog shit on my doorstep, I'd like to be clear that I love a sexy pair of heels just as much as the next gal. I love shoes. Love them. Pumps, sneaks, TOMS, boots, sandals, I love them all.
Way back before Crocs had even made their explosive debut into mass awareness, before everyone with any fashion sense was even aware that the next cool thing to lift your nose at and scoff was just around the corner because ugh gardeners and hippies, I was at Bonnaroo -- the four-day music and arts festival in Tennessee (heaaaveennn). And some time in between not pooping for four days and having my face melted by some pretty amazing musical performances and also the scorching Tennessee heat, I was taking a walk through downtown 'Roo with my friends Monica and Gene. We were slowly meandering through the wares tents, sampling hammocks and examining peace pipes when we came across a tent selling Crocs. None of us had ever heard of Crocs. But they were bright colors and very clean. (I'm at Bonnaroo remember. That basically means I haven't showered in almost a week and have subsisted primarily on beer, granola bars, and an occasional grilled cheese sandwich.) Like I was saying, these Crocs were bright colors and very clean, and thus MESMERIZING.
"Try them on," the old man working the Crocs tent urged as he handed me a pair. I slipped them on and took a few steps. The next series of events may or may not have had to do with the hallucinogens, but within a matter of minutes this man had fully convinced me with the utmost certainty that Crocs were made out of clouds. I pushed a handful of crumpled bills towards his chest and floated off with my new pair of cloud shoes.
"You gotta try these, guyyssss," I told every one of my friends. "Just like walkin' on clouds. I'm walkin' on clouds guysssss." Suffice it to say I didn't take those Crocs off until I stepped into the shower at my house back in Pennsylvania half a week later to scrub off the layer of filth and grime because cloouuudsss, man. And I continued to wear those puppies until it was too cold to reasonably wear them in public. So they became my indoor slippers. My college roommates hated them. They're ugly. They're rubber. You look like a crunchy asshole. But I didn't care. I was largely sober, so I may not have been walking on clouds anymore, but they sure beat having to bend down and tie a pair of shoes, youknowwhatImean?
Some time after moving home for the following summer I lost that pair and I still have my suspicions. So I bought another pair. This time the brightest pair of orange I could find. Won't lose these babies. And I LOVED them. And I wore this pair all. The. Time. Four years after the first Bonnaroo experience, I went back for the third time with my Crocs snugly packed in my backpack. And as soon as the rain came, as the rain is wont to do when you are camping for a week, I chucked my flip flops and floated above the mud in Crocs for the rest of the week. Unfortunately this was the end of this pair because no amount of washing and scrubbing and hosing could rid my bright orange shoes of the mud in every little foot-massaging crevice. And if there's one thing I hate, it's dirty shoes.
I never did get another pair after this, mostly because as I ceremoniously tossed the last pair into the trash, B danced around in the behind me singing the No More Crocs song. I haven't thought much about Crocs in the past few years. Until this week, that is.
I've recently been having some foot problems when I run, which naturally means I've spent some days fluctuating between Normal Bridget and Motherfucking Psychopathic Banshee Bridget. I'm still not sure what it says about my emotional stability (besides the fact that she's a fragile, fragile beast), but if I can't get a good run in on a regular basis, I tend to just want to murder ... just about everyone, actually. Fortunately for me and everyone in the world who knows me, my foot wasn't preventing me from running, but I was living in a state of near-constant paranoia about exacerbating it into a serious injury right before the Philadelphia Marathon, of which I am training my damn ass for right now.
After spending a few weeks wringing my hands, I went to a sports-specific podiatrist. Turns out my little heel problem is totally treatable and I don't even need to stop running while it heals. The doctor wrote me a one-month prescription for some crazy-ass arthritis medication, handed me a hefty heel pad, patted me on the ass and sent me on my merry little way. But before I walked out the door he cautioned, "and no bare feet! Get yourself a pair of Crocs!" I stopped in my tracks.
"WOAH WOAH WOAH, YOU WANT ME TO WEAR CROCS?"
"Oh yes, they're great for this. Lots of cushion. You don't have to wear them in public; they can be your house shoes."
"Really? I get to ... could we say have to ... wear Crocs?"
"We could say that if you want to."
"Oh yes, oh yes I do."
Naturally, as soon as I got home that evening I was all DOCTOR SAYS I HAVE TO WEAR CROCS. IT'S PART OF MY HEALING PROCESS. IT'S GOOD FOR ME. I NEED THEM. And B was all Wha?
"Yup he wrote me a prescription for Crocs, see?" I handed him the piece of paper.
"This says 500 mg of ..."
"IT SAYS 500 MG OF AWESOME. AWESOME CROCS. GOTTA GET SHOPPING GOTTA GET SOME CROCS. CROCS ARE COMIN' BACK, BABY. CAN'T WAIT TO GET MY CROCS. GONNA GET A GREEN PAIR THIS TIME. BRIGHTEST PAIR I CAN FIND. OH YEA."
I haven't had time to swing by the store to pick up a pair of Crocs yet this week, but I can not WAIT to slip my aching feet into a brand new pair of cloud shoes. I don't even know where you GET a pair of Crocs these days, but I will find them. Oh yes I will. I just wish my college roommates were here to see their triumphant return. Nothing I love more than obnoxious footwear. Crocs, babies, Crocs. LET THE HEALING PROCESS BEGIN!Tweet