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The other weekend, I was at a party at which a friend—mid-cheerful gesticulation—accidentally spilled a can of Miller Lite on my feet. At one point, this would have been a minor emergency. I might not have hissed “Ruin my satin shoes, why don’t you?” (Cher-Horowitz-from-Clueless style), but I definitely would have been annoyed (and if I’d been wearing my agonizingly uncomfortable yet beloved Intentionally Blank cheetah mules, may or may not have cried in the bathroom). As it was, though, I was able to shrug, smile, and fix the problem with a half cup of water. This, my friends, is the beauty of wearing black platform Crocs, made of easily washable Croslite. (They’re not Balenciaga or any other designer collaboration, unfortunately, but I’d be more than willing to trade up at some point in the not-too-distant future.)
I have, to put it mildly, always had capital S, capital P shoe problems. Throughout my high school and college years, I agonized about the size of my calves and the width of my ankles, resolving to wear shoes with only enough of a heel to make my legs look relatively long and sinuous (particularly when they were emerging from the stringy bottom of a thrifted house dress). This resolution was hard to keep, though. Sure, I could lace up my trusty Doc Martens throughout the winter months and kick on a pair of Danskos in spring, but what about summer? What was I supposed to wear to the beach while all my friends ran around in flip-flops and cute, delicately crafted sandals, a pair of rubber tires secured with string?
Luckily, I’m not quite as body-conscious now as I was when I was 19, and to put it frankly, I really don’t give a shit if my shoes make my legs look thin. What I do care about, though, is comfort, and I’ve never really found it in socks and sneakers, which tend to make me feel like a cranky eight-year-old boarding the bus for day camp. I had a brief dalliance with oxfords a few years ago, and tried to embrace Tevas as recently as last August, but I found them to be too precious and too crunchy, respectively. Despite my improved self-esteem, I can’t help it; I still have a penchant for enormous shoes, particularly the kind that actually let me—gasp—walk around with more ease than my Docs or Danskos ever afforded.
