I’m making a public apology for all the bad things I said about Crocs within the past year or so. I said they were ugly and made me laugh and I thought less of you as a person. (That is, all of you except my mother-in-law, who looks cute in them.)
The two doctors I’ve seen in them and all the waiters at Vic and Angelo’s (Orange? Really, Vic? Ang? What are you two thinking?) are the main targets of my apology.
I still think they look a little bit goofy, but I now believe you when you say they’re comfortable. Because today I tried some on. For the first time ever.
My mother-in-law and I were in Beall’s, Florida’s version of Rodeo Drive, and I was wandering about, dragging along a pair of pants, three pair of earrings and a fold-up table that I believe will be the frosting on the cake that is my Grand Plan for Beach Happy Hours. (It even has pictures of shells and a crab on it - perfect for organized drinking and snacking on the seashore.) I wandered into the shoe department and saw the rack of Crocs and stifled a snicker.
Crocs can’t be comfortable, I used to insist. I don’t care what you told me about how comfortable they are, I don’t believe you. They’re too big and surely you have to scrunch your toes to hold on for dear life with every step. (I have the same attitude about deep fried turkeys. Ninety-six percent of all Americans swear on their mother’s graves that deep fried turkey is the best thing since canned gravy and I refuse to believe it. I refuse to even take a bite of a deep fried turkey (although I’ve never been invited), but I know deep down inside, they’re wrong and I - with my Reynold’s turkey bags - am right.)
So I’m looking at the rack of Crocs and thinking about how stubborn and selfish and negative I am. I decided to try on a pair and waddle around the store.
Not bad. Not bad at all. They have those rubber fingers that massage your feet inside and even though I was wearing a pair of Men’s Size 9 - the only ones that weren’t hooked together by a plastic hanger - they weren’t falling off my feet.
The Crocs people, in a desperate attempt to keep the dream alive, are diversifying, due to lagging sales, because Crocs last forever (in the distant future our landfills will be reduced to Styrofoam and tropical colored rubber) and how many colors do you really need? Crocs Inc. is now making Croc high heels, Croc sandals, fur-lined winter Croc bootlets, Crocs that look suspiciously like ballet slippers (although what ballet from Kafka hell would those be worn in?), and Croc espadrilles that are eerily like the shoes that I threw up on at a Jimmy Buffett concert at Blossom Music Center in Cleveland in the summer of 1983. I’m thinking that if my espadrilles had been made out of rubber, I wouldn’t have had to throw them away after that pathetic incident. (Methinks I should write a blog about that. It’s a true testament to how wonderful my husband is. He washed the espadrilles by hand in soap and water after tucking me into bed. All that, after taking the time to look for me at the concert, where I had fled our seats, ducked past security, and made my way to the edge of the stage and was grooving to Fins to the left, Fins to the right . . . Ah, the ‘80s . . .)
So I’ve decided to apologize to all of you for my Crocs jokes and digs and disparaging remarks over the years.
But that’s all you’re going to get from me. They were comfortable, but I’m not going to buy a pair.
Next I might try a taste of deep fried turkey, if someone offers it.
Labels: crocs, deep fried turkey, Jimmy Buffett concert, throwing up on your shoes