I Am A Pair Of Crocs, And Look Who Just Came Crawling Back
Fashions fade. Croc is forever.
Well, looky here.
If it isn’t Little Princess Normal Shoes. Ol’ Jackie No Holes. Madame Duchess “They Look Like Pasta Strainers For Feet”.
As I live and breathe (which I find very easy, due to my aerated design). It seems I’ve ended up in your Amazon cart.
My oh my. Isn’t it interesting? How you cried when you first saw me on your dad’s feet in 2006? How you pleaded for him not to go outside? How you begged? Now you’re begging for that next day delivery.
Ha. (That’s me laughing). Sorry, I guess I just find it funny.
What’s that? I’m an ‘ironic’ purchase you say? Hmm, did you just ‘ironically’ spend three days scanning through every style and range available before settling on a wonderful powder blue set of Croc Classics? Oh yes, your bitingly satirical shoe choice so very obvious. So hilarious. You’re a regular Jon Stewart.
It’s okay, you don’t want to admit it, so you lie to yourself. I’m just an “indoor shoe” you say. I’m just for “emptying the trash”. I’m just for “stepping in pig shit”. Well guess what missy, that’s how it starts. It won’t be long before you’re wearing me out on trips to the store, to the dog park, to family lunches. Then it’s to beachside weddings, exclusive gallery openings, secret José Cuervo launch parties where all the waiters are made of ice.
Like father, like daughter.
At first, you’ll need to justify the purchase by praising me purely for my utility. “They’re just so comfy” you’ll say in faux embarrassment. But once the unironic compliments begin to roll in, “Wow, those are so chic!”, “Do they come with a fuzzy lining?”, and “Run away with me to Milan” then you start taking me a little more seriously. Start showing me off, start decorating me with my jewels (jibbitz).
At night you rest me on a velvet pillow at the top of the bed. You lay at the bottom of the bed like a dog.
You start to worry about me more and more. Terrified I’ll get too much use, terrified that I’ll scuff. That’s when you get your second pair. A dazzling tie-dye set of Bistro Pros. And all of a sudden I’m no longer that scruffy, beautiful, gorgeous, powder blue-eyed girl from the backwaters of Alabama. I’m a bombshell. A showstopper. People stop you in the street. They take photographs. Flash go their cameras. Flash, flash, flash.
You pose. You laugh. I pivot. I dazzle.
I leave you in the dust.
I become famous. I become a movie star. I make a movie deal.
I star in Crocs: The Movie directed by Pedro Almodóvar — a tasteful and sexy film about bisexuality and longing that’s also in Spanish and does even better than Minions: The Rise Of Gru. I make one billion dollars. Florence Pugh follows me on Instagram. I ignore it. I have an affair with my director. I have an affair with Pete Davidson. I have an affair with Tom Hanks in full Colonel Parker prosthetics. The people love me. I’m not just a trend. I am the trend. I stay like this forever. Never again do I go out of fashion. Never again do I take out the trash. Never again do I squeak with the foot sweat of some barbecuing, lawn dart playing father of four.
I’m on top of the world.
I am chic. I am eternal. I am Croc.
So please hunni, just pay for that next day delivery. We don’t have time to waste.
