Oh yeah, I went there.
5 years ago I was working at a wine bar in Denver, and one of the girls I worked with came in wearing Crocs. And I was all, “Dude, really, ewww.” And she was all, “I dare you to go buy a pair, wear them to work once, and say that to my face after.”
So I did. And for the first time in 10 years of waitressing, my legs didn’t hurt after a 10 hour shift. I didn’t limp to my car that night. I didn’t have to sit in a hot shower for an hour after work just so I could feel my backbone again. That one pair turned into this:
I don’t care what you say, Crocs are the SHIT.
A while back, I whined joked in Mommy Martini’s comment section that Crocs never sends me anything, and, well, if you’ve ever read my blog, you know how I love to link to them (mostly to torment Kelley and BusyDad. Bygones.) Turns out, they read that shit (whoops) and some very nice man at YouByCrocs emailed to offer me a token of his appreciation for my years of slavish dedication to the Crause*.
So yeah, they sent me these beauties.
And, um, dude? They’re fabulous. They’re all lambswooly on the inside, suedy on the outside, they fold down, the belt on them comes off, and even though the last thing in the world we needed were more Crocs, well, let’s just say that my better half approved. WHOLE-HEARTEDLY.
*Okay, I made that very last bit up. I think he just wanted me to stop bitching. And Crause isn’t a word. I’m pretty sure Crocs isn’t a cause at all. But it should be.