As a child who grew up in the aughts, few cultural phenomena greater impacted my early development than the rubber clog full of holes, otherwise known as a Croc. Or for those with my lived experience, the knock-off version at Payless.

Like my idol Hannah Montana, I was a girl who inhabited two worlds—that of a mediocre Irish dancer and that of a Catholic school girl (but not in a cool way). 

In the world of Irish dance, the Croc was the ultimate symbol of power. You were not only trendy but had the signaling of a tactical genius: see, in niche facts nobody asked for, soft shoes (otherwise known as “gillies”) are ruined by walking on pavement but purchased 2 shoes sizes too small and mold over time to your feet. In delicate terms, they’re a huge pain in the ass. This allowed a child genius to wrangle them on in the car and have the fashionable envelope of a bedazzled Croc to protect the gillies on the pavement. 

In the world of Catholic school and uniforms, shoes were the sole (that was intended) medium of creative expression. Nothing was stopping hoards of us children from spending embarrassing amounts of money on decorating rubber clogs—not even our school handbook. In an environment of repression, Crocs provided children the means of a silent—albeit incredibly ugly—rebellion. 

Beyond the dribble of my childhood, one thing needs to be abundantly clear: I am in no way a Croc apologist; in fact, I believe that 90% of people wearing Crocs today owe us some apologies. 

Rather, in favor of a constructive argument I concede the fact that in 2000s, Crocs were perhaps the greatest innovation of the millennium. 

But it’s no longer 2005, and what’s left is not style… but solely the audacity. The worst thing about Crocs is that they embolden the wearer in ways society should not. 

The thought process seems to be: “Well I’m already wearing Crocs—anything else I do is the second dumbest action of my day.” 

Or perhaps I’m still bitter that recently while boarding a points-finessed first class flight, a man in Crocs behind me in line confronted me and asked to see my boarding pass to confirm I belonged there. 

Being vibe-checked by a grown 30-something in Crocs humbles me in a way that nothing else can. 

But it’s not solely me that needs some humbling; it’s the trend, or more aptly, the epidemic of grown adults walking around in gardening shoes who are in most dire need of a vibe (and reality) check. 

As my mom has told me during many of my ugly adolescent outfit choices: just because you can does not mean you should. Worlds to live by and most importantly, words all should dress by.