As I was doom scrolling Instagram the other day, I came across a video of someone talking about the correct way to “style” your Crocs. It entailed taking the cutout rubber shoes and dropping them in the trash. I laughed and immediately reposted it in agreement.
Crocs, in my opinion, are not only not stylish—and therefore should never be the subject of a “how to style” video—they’re cartoonish. They’re somewhat passable for those who can’t tie shoelaces yet... or maybe even at the pool... but when it comes to anything else, they might as well be clown shoes. I actually have more love for an adult wearing clown shoes than one in Crocs. Average Joe in Crocs? Corny. Average Joe rocking clown shoes? Legend.
Speaking of legends, legend has it that in 2004 the costume designer for the film Idiocracy chose to outfit the cast in Crocs—what they thought was a perfect, non-discerning uniform for a film set 500 years in the future. (Also, Crocs were cheap and the film had a limited budget.) By the time the film was released two years later, the joke was on them and I guess all of us: Crocs were everywhere... but my house.
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Then came the Age Of Comfort—aka the Pandemic—and with it her uniform of whatever feels the coziest. My twin sister, Charlotte, who has always had impeccable taste, had already been wearing Crocs for a while by that point, so I copied her. On November, 11, 2020, I ordered my first pair of Crocs with the intention of wearing them only in the house, because, well, they are as comfortable as they are ugly. I ordered a second pair for my little guy, and some charms, or Jibbitz, as I’ve learned they are called: a menorah, Marshall from Paw Patrol, a llama, a Spiderman mask, Olaf, a candy cane, a monkey, a gingerbread house, an otter, a sloth, and a hot sauce bottle. (It was Covid, after all, and my career as a DJ was not exactly at its busiest.)
At first, my Crocs were designated as house shoes to wear when visiting my sister. Then they were allowed onto my feet while driving the 90 minutes to Santa Barbara from the Hollywood Hills. Then came the beach... Suddenly, one day I found myself at the grocery store in my ‘house’ pair of Crocs, and the next, the airport. To quote Anchorman, it escalated quickly.
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My Croc ownership is not something I am proud of—it’s also something that I can admit I have a problem with. No matter how often I wear my Crocs, I still feel the same hesitation I felt on day one. It is a marriage of convenience, and one that I never wanted. I always viewed myself as a hopeless romantic who wouldn’t settle for less than absolute head-over-heels, forsake all material comforts and join a revolutionary army, kind of love. But here I am, ankle-deep in Jibbitz charms and walking in full view of friends, enemies, and strangers on a proprietary closed-cell resin, and it feels good. Of all the things I said I’d never do this has by far been the most rewarding.
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