Crocs violate fashion senses, induce gagging
I don’t claim to know anything about fashion. I just like it.
High-waisted jeans, men’s blazer vests, the occasional splurge on a pair of Italian leather fold-over boots and pretty much whatever Natalie Portman as much as thinks about wearing, I’m on it. Or at least, I’d like to think I am.
And now, with a new fall fashion season upon us, I want to take a minute, at the risk of sounding like a pretentious fashion bitch, to talk about one of my biggest gray areas this season.
No, I’m not talking about whether or not Sarah Palin can really see Russia from her house. I’m talking about Crocs.
After the weird phenomenon this past summer of “the coolest garden shoe gone Hollywood!” that had every man, woman and child sprouting rubbers faster than mold grows on whatever leftover is in your fridge, I decided I had to finally try on a pair.
Two rubber shoes and a quick stroll around Sports Authority later, I concluded my experiment. The truth is that yes, they’re comfortable, but not orgasmically so. I wasn’t impressed by the boasted “life-saving” arch support, and I don’t know about your feet, but the rubber made mine sweat.
Which brings me to my next point: they’re made of rubber. Rubber with holes. Even Trojan condoms can tell you that’s not a good thing.
And they’re ugly. I just figured I should get that in there somewhere.
Smug and content after a polite “Thanks, but no thanks” to my all too eager sales associate, I left Sports Authority and let it go. Just like every other fad, I told myself, this will pass.
Even the mighty must fall, right? Wrong.
Much to my ballet-shoe-, gladiator-sandal-, motorcycle-boots-loving dismay, the Crocs multiplied. Like rabbits, I might add.
Any color, any style, anytime. Hell, I even saw an advertisement for high-heeled Crocs, which, ladies, if I catch you wearing, may the fashion gods have mercy on your soul and those stairs by Cain Hall be unforgiving.
For the UGG aficionados, Crocs have even made winter-friendly clogs (oxymoronic, anyone?) with Sherpa lining.
And, in the spirit of Palin-isms, doggoneit, there’s even decals for the hole slots now.
Every decade, unfortunately, has a stigma of unforgettable fashion don’ts. In the ’60s, it was unwashed hippie hair. In the ’70s, it was platforms. Eighties, where to begin? Nineties, plaid shirts tied around the waist with acid-wash jeans. Now in the ’00s, we have the entirely rubber shoe — Crocs, which just beat out the bag lady look à la Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen.
Let’s put it this way, folks. Keep those bad boys where they belong — in the garden or with children under the age of 12. If you’re not going to the Davidson Academy, I recommend you go shoe shopping, ASAP.
You may now go back to worrying about how the government is going to bail us out of our dump of an economy.
In the meantime, I’m having a Croc burning.
Krystal Bick is a columnist for The Nevada Sagebrush. She can be reached at kbick@nevadasagebrush.com.
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