I originally came up with the idea to wear Crocs everywhere for a week—work, dinner, gym—because I thought it would be funny. Because, well, they’re Crocs.
For the uninitiated, Crocs are clogs made of a proprietary foam called Croslite, which makes them uniquely comfortable, durable and something you would never want anyone who could pass as a cast member of Euphoria to catch you wearing. Commenting on their hideous appearance, Tim Gunn (the voice of reason in fashion) once said that the Croc is akin to a “plastic hoof.”
As someone who’s not even close to playing in the big leagues of “good dressers” among some real Sammy Sosas (forgive me, I stopped following baseball in 2002), I thought it’d be deeply ironic to sashay across my building’s fancy marble floor, smoosh into the elevator alongside the strappy summer sandals and teeny, trendy purses, and swish through the hallways, brushing shoulders with my stylish colleagues while wearing the sartorial equivalent of clown shoes.
You see, a Croc is but a humble shoe when it’s in a garden, a doctor’s office or a children’s playground. But juxtaposed next to Fashion—that’s the Anna Wintour version of the word, with an intimidating capital “F”—the unassuming Croc becomes grotesque, casting a shadow of ugliness on the world around it. Imagine Daniel Day-Lewis as Phantom Thread’s Reynolds Woodcock in his London townhouse. It’s 1953, and he’s dressed in an impeccable suit. He’s standing in his studio, needle in mouth, gaze on the hem of a custom silk wool gown to be worn by an elegant debutante. Weak winter light pours in from the windows and is softly diffused through the pleated drapes.
