As devoted deadman blog readers with photographic memories know (a surprisingly slim sample size), I’ve never been a fan of being barefoot.
For much of my teenage, young adult and now creeping middle-age life, my bare feet have been a rare site, indeed, with notable exceptions being in the shower and on the beach. I’m not 100% sure of the reason for this, exactly – while they definitely don’t fall into the stunningly beautiful category, I don’t think my feet are hideously embarrassing either (photographic evidence to the right – my apologies to my photographic memory readers who will now be stuck with this image seared into their brain for all time).
I think my aversion to bare feet in the past has been partly due to bad circulation (there are times during the dead of winter when I have to soak my feet in hot water just to feel them), partly due to the way I hate the way toenails and skin rub against bedsheets (it reminds me of fingernails on blackboards), and partly just out of habit (as if I am anything, I am certainly a creature of that)
Whatever the reason, the conspicuous lack of naked, or even scantily sandal-ed, feet has been a notable trait of my life, so much so that some of my lovers have never even seen my feet (oh yeah, sex with socks – hot!!!), and the soon-to-be-Mrs. Deadman has endearingly nicknamed me Sox.
But all that has changed over the past two summers, and the reason for the sudden change of events is solely due to Crocs footwear, winner of the latest My One Favorite Thing of the Week award. Granted, I don’t yet sleep or shower or exercise in my Crocs (though I think it’s high-time I try sex with Crocs), but at almost every other time you can find me and my bare feet luxuriating in a pair of these bad boys.
These things rock. They’re so cushy and comfortable. Seriously, it’s a like a party with every step. They’re not the most fashionable things for sure, although many of the newer styles have abandoned the clunky atrocities of the earliest versions of Crocs.
I look at people now wearing Birkenstocks, or heaven forbid, regular thong sandals, and I feel so sad, like I’m watching savages who haven’t yet discovered fire, or heathens who need to be shown the Light and taught the way of the Croc.
Yea, once I was Sox. Now, just call me Crox.
Unfortunately, the company that manufactures these little rubber beauties may be in some operating trouble – its 2-year stock price performance, at least, has been a sheer disaster as the brand has passed that hot fad phase.
But I can at least feel good knowing me and my Beyonce have done our part to ensure the company’s survival, scooping up pairs and pairs of the shoes just in case we have to hoard them for the future.
Yet I don’t think that will be necessary. While the proliferation of reality TV may suggest otherwise, i still believe in the inexorable progress of evolution, and I just can’t imagine society ever going Croc-less again.