It may come as a surprise to learn that Crocs can shrink in direct sun. It’s a sad, sad thing to find one’s pair of shoes have reduced by an entire size in an afternoon. It’s why I’ve scrupulously shoved my (many) pairs of my beloved Crocs under seats in the car or, as was the case this past summer in blazing southwest Utah, under the Airstream.
The thing I forgot was that it’s not sun, exactly, that shrinks the shoes: it’s heat. So in August, when I pulled out my Crocs and found that they didn’t quite fit right anymore, I knew why.
At first I felt sad, knowing that the Crocs were unwearable. I was disappointed in myself for not taking better care of my things. And then, weirdly, I felt self-conscious thinking about how I’d have to discard the Crocs, and probably wouldn’t – at least not immediately – replace them, and what did that mean about who I am as a person? Everyone knows I love Crocs. What kind of poseur am I if I talk a big game but don’t even own a pair?
As you may or may not know: I’ve talked, written, and posted at length about my love of Crocs. When I had a small, but respectable little platform to wax poetic about being an unlikely outdoorswoman in Alaska, I proudly and stubbornly published several pieces pertaining to Crocs. Loved ones frequently gift me Crocs and Croc accessories (see: my furry yellow booty Crocs; my pink platform Belanciaga knock offs; my Croc Shine polish); many of you send me Croc memes. I love it. I am an early and ardent Croc enthusiast and champion, and proud to be so deeply associated with the uglybeautifulcomfortableutilitarian shoe.
But Crocs aren’t the shoe for every occasion (this came as a shock to me, too). For instance, in the heat of the day and especially in the desert spring/summer, they’re too hot for my feet. The plastic rubs uncomfortably and can even cause blisters.
When camping in sandy environments, the holes let in gravel that’s hard to expel without fully taking off the Croc and shaking it occasionally. This makes what should be a pleasant camp-shoe experience, not.
These two things are what led to the Crocs being stuffed under the trailer for the better part of an entire season to begin with: they were out of commission, because they weren’t appropriate for my broader environment. I was keeping them around because I had them, and maybe vaguely as a kind of touchstone for something I enjoy about my personality, but when they weren’t wearable anymore it forced my hand.
Was I going to replace these shoes that I didn’t really need? If I did, would I just be buying new Crocs so that I could have them and not even really wear them, and how would that sit with me?
2023 was a year of majorly slimming down our earthly belongings to fit in our new mobile setup. It was also a year marked by major adaptation to new, and constantly changing, circumstances. In this life, but in any life, there’s a choice each of us have to make about how much we want to superimpose ourselves onto and influence our environments; and how much we want to let the world and the places we inhabit/people we spend time with change us. Somewhere within that continuum of actual personal needs and personality/identity markers, and the ability to absorb other influence and grow/change as a result, lies who I am and who you are – at any given moment, and over time.
But really: how much stuff do I want to have in tow with me is now a constant question. Did I really want more shoes to lug around?!
Pretty philosophical to get over Crocs, but we humans do it about all sorts of things: you can be a Swiftie, a fan of this or that sportsing team, a Wine Mom.
I have been a Crocs person. Getting rid of them meant that to some degree, I wasn’t. I was something else, something new, something not yet defined.
Other personality markers I had to evaluate about myself over the past year: Alaskan (I don’t live there anymore), cocktail enthusiast (I drink significantly less these days), extrovert (I’m much more quickly drained by some kinds of social gatherings than I used to be), writer (I don’t have a paid venue for it right now), artist (what does it mean to earnestly pursue art as a means of income vs ‘pure’ expression, and where’s the line between creating pieces of value for me vs for others?).
I think part of the beauty of being human in a constantly changing world is that we are able to make decisions about how and when to put our foot down (…or in, like with my shoe choices), and how and when to adapt. While I miss aspects of all of the above pieces of myself being more prominent, they aren’t gone completely – and I find that I enjoy what’s on the other side, even as it is still coming into focus. I appreciate the possibility and openness of letting go of some things in order to make space for the new and, as of yet, still coming into focus or unknown.
Back to the footwear, though: my feet are currently sheathed in what my stepdaughter refers to as “sleeping bag shoes”. They’re Chaco brand (oy), rubber-soled and down lined slide-in camp shoes that make much more sense for my gravely, chilly-at-night desert environment. And they don’t shrink in the heat.