CROCS: LOVE 'EM... OR HATE 'EM?

Crocs elicit extreme reactions in people. They are the pickle of the shoe world. Some people see them and run screaming. A friend of mine has a visceral repulsion to the holes their design is defined by. Others merely catch a hint of a Croc and immediately feel like projectile vomiting.

I cannot think of another shoe that inspires such extreme reactions of love or hatred

But I? I am firmly in the Crocs-deserve-their-style-resurrection camp. Actually, it isn’t really a resurrection, since they were not stylish to begin with. They were considered horribly ugly. The lowest common denominator. Functional, anti-style footwear. Call it a rebirth. Once a joke, now an icon.

How could I possible eschew a shoe that has such customisable, creative possibilities? Footwear so famous they have collaborated with Simone Rocha, Balenciaga, Post Malone, Christopher Kane…. KFC. It is a genius turnaround. They are collectable, spark conversation, inspire ongoing viral momentum.

We are a family of Crocs wearers. Clockwise from top left: Sister, Dad, Mum, Me.

 In my Crocs wardrobe I have: a khaki pair and a chunky platform sky blue pair.  Two pairs of black ones. Stone coloured Siren Clogs and a pair of hefty fisherman sandals. Each Jibbitzed to the max, sparking the magpie-like delight that sparkly things inspire in me. I was lucky enough to be invited one year – one year only – to CrocsFest. A holy celebration of the world’s holiest shoe. It was a media event. There were Jibbitz galore. Go nuts, said the PR girl, and I went nuts. Like a Crocs addict at a Jibbitz bar I scooped and clawed, razzled and shmazzled until I was shaking and comatose.

Just a glimpse at my collection.

 I plunged my hands into bottomless buckets of bedazzlement and stirred them around, my fingers reading each one. A flower. A fairy. A unicorn. A teddy bear. A rhinestone. A photo frame. A bow. A jellyfish. The possibilities were boundless and exciting. I was gripped with a feeling like obsessive compulsion.

Approximately two hours later, still walking ‘round and ‘round in a daze, my hair braided (Jibbitz woven in), my nails embellished with mini Jibbitz, and my Crocs-inspired frozen yoghurt in hand, the PR said with shock and awe: CECILY I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU ARE STILL HERE! And yet it was like I had been sucked into a vortex of hypnotic rubber footwear and their enticing embellishments …. Just one more. Just one more….

I borrowed these Crocs from my mum because they matched my outfit.

 I glitched. I malfunctioned. I prayed for security to escort me out. The beautiful PR smiled and nodded encouragingly. Go nuts! She said. Go nuts. I dragged myself, my Crocs, my Jibbitz haul home, eyes spinning, heart palpitating, body vibrating at a crocodilian frequency, feet and bucket bag emblazoned with rhinestones and shminestones. I felt exhausted, undone and overstimulated by shoe accessories. It took the best part of an afternoon to recover.

I wore my Crocs the next day. And the next. And the next. I love your Crocs, people said. They stopped me in the street. They oohed and ahhed and admired and lavished me with compliments. Get those out of my sight, said my friend. They make me sick.

Like I said. They are the pickle of the shoe world. But love ‘em or hate ‘em, there aren’t many shoes that you could also put a pickle on. If you wanted to.