Years ago in Washington, D.C., mom and I were visiting my brother and his family when one afternoon on the metro, a drunk man began laughing wildly at us. We were all sitting quietly, minding our own business, when we noticed the man’s chuckle raise in volume. I hadn’t lived in New York City long at the time, but long enough to know that you do not engage with the person laughing at nothing on the subway.
The man began pointing at us. His laughter escalated. Then he started shouting, “ZAPATOS! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAA! ZAPATOS! LOOK AT YOUR F*CKING ZAPATOS!” And we, too, had to laugh, because what?! It was then that we realized this drunk man of Latin persuasion was talking about my mother’s shoes. Goofy, stumpy, downtrodden yellow Crocs. The Crocs my brother and I been mocking for months. Crocs of yore. The kind of Crocs only worn by Mario Batali; not yet donned by influencers and non-culinary celebrities. Crocs only socially accepted when worn by those in the service industry, the medical field, and other do-gooders that are exempt from mockery due to their selflessness. They can wear whatever they want.
For years after this incident, we continued to mock my mother’s zapatos, though she refused to buckle. She inherited bad feet from her mother and had given up shoes with any kind of sex appeal years ago. Then the influencers and celebrities began chattering on about their Crocs, their cloud-like soles and unpretentious nature. This is, of course, part of their appeal. Like norm core and dad jeans and whatever trends teenagers are recycling these days and calling fashion. (You know, when I wore it—BACK IN THE 90s—it was still ugly. But I’m infuriated that it looks better on today’s teens than it does on us middle-agers born prior to Y2K.) Crocs, like Hammer pants and Kangol hats, are an arguably objectively ugly piece of fashion, a sartorial stain, that have become trendy because they are the antithesis of everything fashion-like––and the pandemic did not slow their ascent to popularity.
This past April, I was in New York for a few days and went to my friend, Jess’s, apartment in south Brooklyn. She opened the door to her light-filled abode, dotted with lush plants and led me into her kitchen to make me a fresh pot of coffee with the fresh whole milk she’d picked up from the farmer’s market. Butter, probably churned that morning in the Hudson Valley and emergency airlifted to a Brooklyn craft fair, sat in a clay butter dish. This is not to say that Jess is bougie or fancy. She’s quite down to earth. But she is a person who cherishes good things. A well-designed button-down. A pristine meal with friends. An impeccable cup of coffee and lovingly made blanket. And she was wearing Crocs.
“Umm, what’s this? Are you wearing Crocs?” I asked, a bit taken back.
”Oh yeah, my podiatrist told me I can never walk barefoot on hardwood floors,” she said, grinning. “These are my indoor shoes.” And that was it, and we ate donuts and drank coffee and cuddled and chatted and I didn’t think about her Crocs again until a few weeks later. When my own feet had begun aching. My feet, bad feet, that I also inherited.
"I think Ruby needs Crocs,” I told my husband as I peered at him over my laptop. “She needs to be able to wear shoes she can take on and off herself.” Our daughter was starting at a Montessori school and I was absolutely going to use their “follow the child” approach as an excuse to get some Crocs into this house. Jess dislodged a curiosity in me that I could not ignore. I’d been wearing glorified sweatpants in public since March 2020. I stopped wearing makeup on a daily basis by July 2020. What was stopping me from going full comfort? The fact that I used to glide through the hallowed halls of Vogue magazine wearing the latest pair of Gucci loafers? That I used to interview fashion designers like Jason Wu? Get manicures every two weeks and spend approximately 3/4 of my budget on clothing? No. The only thing stopping me was my dignity. And I’d lost most of that during childbirth. Then I nonchalantly added, “Think I may get a pair, too. You know, indoor shoes. Want some?”
And that’s how we became a Crocs family.
At first, I only wore them in the apartment. Then to walk to the dog. And before I knew it, I was slinging my purse over my shoulder, throwing a baseball cap over my unbrushed hair, begging my toddler to just come on already—yes, you can bring the baby—no, please leave the smoothie, and running out the door in a frenzy while, oops, still wearing my Crocs. And now? I just don’t care. I have become my mother.
First I’d like to give a shout-out to the Platform Clog. Good on you, Crocs. You took a traditionally matronly shoe (a clog) and you didn’t try to church it up and make it cute like No. 6 or Rachel Comey, the Official Shoe of Brooklyn Moms™ and now Upstate New York Moms™ (formerly of the Brooklyn Moms™). You did you and kept it ugly. And, might I add, they are my favorite Crocs. The kind of support a lady with Bad Feet truly needs (and deserves).
Next, I want to praise the Cloud croc, my other personal fave. The kids version comes with this adorable LGBTQIA back strap, which is a courtesy the designers at Crocs did not extend to us adults. That said—I have the adult version. I saw Ashley Graham wearing them on Instagram once, and that was really all the nudge I needed.
If you are also thinking of embracing “it’s cool because it’s ugly” vibes in your wardrobe, I’m here to give you permission. And if not, you can just say you have Bad Feet.
I was there and I love that story!! 😂 You tell it so well! Priceless!
Hahaha so you’re saying I need Crocs?