Work Boots and Dress shoes Why I’ll Never Wear Crocs (Even If They Are Apparently a Gift From Heaven)

by BeeBop

I keep hearing it — over and over — like some weird cult message:

“Beebop, Crocs are SO comfortable.”

“Beebop, once you try them, you’ll never go back.”

“Beebop , they saved my feet!”

Saved your feet? What were your feet doing, exactly? Running a marathon through gravel? Climbing Everest? Escaping a stampede at Costco on senior discount day?

Relax.

Here’s the truth: I just can’t bring myself to wear them. I mean, I spent most of my life in steel-tipped work boots or dress shoes. Shoes meant something. They were a uniform. A sign of respect. At work, at a construction site, at a wedding — heck, even relaxing at home, I feel weird without real shoes on. Vulnerable almost. Like a cowboy who keeps his boots on even in the shower. It’s part habit, part pride, part muscle memory from decades of being a responsible adult.

And then along come Crocs.

Big foamy rubber shoes with holes punched in them like Swiss cheese. They look like something a cartoon plumber would wear. Or like footwear they’d issue in minimum-security prison. I’m sorry — I know the whole world loves them, but I look at a pair of Crocs and my brain goes straight back to the 1970s. Earth Shoes. Birkenstocks. Hippies with bell-bottoms, macramé belts, and hair so long it should’ve qualified for its own ZIP code. Sorry, but some memories shouldn’t be revived.

And honestly, part of why I don’t wear Crocs is simple survival instinct. After a lifetime in steel-toed boots, my feet feel naked without at least a quarter-inch of armor on them. I want to be ready for a crisis at all times — a falling skillet, a rogue can of tomato sauce, or God forbid I drop a framing hammer on my toe while I’m just trying to make a sandwich in the kitchen. In Crocs, that thing would go straight through and pin my foot to the floor like a butterfly in a science project. And don’t laugh, but a tiny part of me also stays ready for the next apocalypse — zombies, solar flares, EMPs, whatever pops up. Who’s surviving that in rubber cheese-grater shoes? Not me. I’m sticking with real footwear.

And don’t get me started on the “Jibbitz.” What genius said, “Let’s make the shoes uglier by letting people decorate them like third graders decorating a Trapper Keeper.” I saw a guy wearing Crocs with a miniature plastic hamburger stuck to them. Why? If your feet smell like hamburgers, you’ve got bigger issues.

People keep telling me, “Just try them once.” Sure. And the first time I try them, one of two things will happen:

I’ll love them, and then I’ll hate myself.

I’ll be seen wearing them, and then I’ll have to move to a new state.

No thanks.

Look, I respect comfort. I’m not against it. I enjoy a good recliner. I like soft socks. I appreciate a shoe that doesn’t try to amputate your toes. But I also grew up in a time when shoes meant something. They were part of your presentation. Your handshake. A signal that you took the world seriously.

So when I see Crocs, my brain says:

“Nope. This is a trap. Don’t fall into it. This is how it starts. First Crocs… then you’re wearing pajama pants to the grocery store.”

And that, my friends, is how society collapses.

Now — if you love Crocs, hey, good for you. Wear them with pride. Wear them with socks. Wear them with Jibbitz shaped like tacos. Live your best rubber-footed life.

But me?

Nope. I’ll be over here in my boots, feeling like a normal human being and not a cartoon character who escaped from SpongeBob SquarePants.