A Load of Crocs

“You really need a Croc intervention,” my daughter-in-law says as she surveys my house.

“I have them by the doors so I can slip them on when I go outside,” I say. “It’s not like I wear them in public.”

“Humph,” she sniffs.

I may have gotten carried away in high spirits with Crocs, those plastic shoes with holes in the top. Pink ones, blue ones, ones chewed by the dogs, and those cracked and torn by rough use litter my floors by every exit.

But they are just so darn comfortable. I try not to wear shoes in the house so I just step into a pair of Crocs when I run outside to do yard work or to dislodge a dead quail from a dog’s mouth. Or to clean up the bits and pieces of the quail that the dog has thrown up because I wasn’t fast enough.

It is a few years later and I’m at a swim meet watching my grandchildren backstroking, butterflying and relaying across the pool. I’m quite certain they are the best swimmers in the entire universe.

Crocs litter the cool deck, piles of them scattered hither and yon. White seems to be the color of choice and many have charms plugging the holes. Star Wars, dinosaurs, TV characters and even fruit decorate the clumsy shoes.

Later, as my oldest grandson dashes out the door to visit his friends, I notice he’s still wearing his white Crocs decorated with symbols from some electronic game.

“Are you wearing those outside? I ask.

“Everyone does, Nana.” He blows me a kiss.

Everyone does? When did Crocs become cool?

I picture my piles of stained, grubby Crocs scattered through my house. I realize I am a trendsetter. I am chic. I am hip.

But I’m still not wearing them in public.