Crocs are goddamn comfortable, and that is enough for footwear

I love Crocs.

Yeah, you heard me. See how happy they make me?


I love Crocs. I wear mine all the time. I wear them in public, I wear them around the house, I wear them to my casual workplace with jeans, I wear them whenever possible.

They are so goddamn comfortable. They are easy. They are durable, even when I treat them bad (or leave them in the car too long. Which I have done several times, and it has warped slightly, but they are still comfy goddamn shoes. They were a gift from my boyfriend for Christmas 2007 (I used to steal his since we wear the same size; they are Red Sox-themed; he gives awesome gifts) and I wear them constantly, and they’ve held up totes well.

Are they stylish? I guess not, no. Normally I am a clothes kind of gal – I like looking at them and wearing them quite a bit. But these are so goddamn fucking comfortable.

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Halfway through writing this (which was supposed to be a warmup for real writing), I read this awesome piece on Beyonce and beauty performance. I read it, thought “fuck yeah!” clicked “like” to tell Google basically that I like it (because who else cares?) and then went back to my word processing document.

And I thought, “wait, why the fuck is this so defensive? Why do I feel like I have to defend occasionally veering from style/beauty standards even the last little bit? They’re Crocs. They’re comfortable. That's the point?Why does this fucking matter, why should I feel like I have to put on cute shoes every time I go in public?” I’m guilty about it for some reason (hint: the reason is the patriarchy) and so I’m moved to write this to assuage my guilt.

Style and fashion and what we wear are a construct, demanded by the patriarchy, but the building of it, the tiny choices, the shoes – that work is pushed off onto us. Like a, I don’t know, clock-making kit you get from an aunt or uncle or grandma for Christmas, except they don’t always have the colors or the batteries or something is missing, and you work hard on it, and it’s still a mess.

The beauty myth is very DIY.