20 June 2006

afterwhile crocodile

Dooce came out against them. So I felt justified in declaring my disdain of Crocs.

Two years ago, as I walked through an airport, I saw an older woman sporting these rubber clogs. I vowed to myself to never find it appropriate to wear out in public footwear explicitly designed for gardening.

I maintain that vow, even as others around me—sane, fashionable folk—don these rubber clompers. Which, truth according to the company web site be told, were actually originally created for boating/outdoor shoe. But to the company's glee, people liked them So Gosh Darn Much, Crocs crossed into the "all-purpose" shoe genre. (Purpose! It's all in the purpose—that is my contention!)

Two weeks ago, Katherine delicately asked me, "What do you think of Crocs?" as if expecting some sort of hellstorm to issue from me, though probably feeling somewhat protected since she works for God and all.

"I think they belong in the garden," I promptly replied, quelling bilious commentary and picturing Katherine sporting rubber hooves below her ministerial garb.

Purpose, folks, purpose. In calm, even tones, I explained that these perforated foam demon spawn shoes were perfectly acceptable to wear romping around one's yard, washing the car/cat/kid or digging up worms. And they're feasible footwear for hospitals—on staff, not patients. In addition, children are obviously exempt from my "Crocs in public' embargo, because little children can smear themselves with poop and still manage to look cute.

Of course, my critique is For What It's Worth, since I own what have been referred to as "man sandals." (And I am not a man.) But, for the record, I think I've finally relegated the wearing of these sandals to camping, river walking and women's music festivals.

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