A Pair of Ugly Pink Crocs Stopped My People-Pleasing

Because apparently enlightenment comes in rubber form

Picture it: Puerto Rico, 2012.A brutally hot summer day.

I sat there in indigo-blue slacks and a coral-striped shirt with matching coral flip-flops. My toes wiggled as I looked down at them, happily licking my cherry-flavored piragua. I was perched on a bench under the shade at the outlet mall. My then-husband came over and planted a kiss on my forehead. I smiled up at him.

I was being... such... a good girl. Fed with local treats (piraguas were my weakness). Given a seat everywhere we went before I started to whine. The in-laws were weaving in and out of stores while I slobbered contentedly over my Puerto Rican Icee.

Then someone called out… apparently, we were going to the Crocs store.

Crocs had just made their debut, or at least, that’s how I remember it. I scampered in, excited to escape the heat. I had no strong opinions on Crocs, just thought they were kind of ugly but... intriguing. We were there to buy a pair for my niece, since they’d become the thing in Puerto Rico.

And then I saw it… the clearance rack.

I sauntered over, cherry lips glistening, and there they were: the ugliest pair of Crocs I had ever seen. Leopard print, rubbery, tacky perfection. $4.99. A bargain! Of course they were on clearance… they were hideous. But I’ve always had a soft spot for ugly things. Maybe it’s the Tylenol my mother ingested during pregnancy or the microwaves, who knows. My brain fixates on ugly and declares it cute. I know some of you get it… “It’s so ugly, it’s cute!”

So I carried my monstrous Crocs to my husband.“I want these,” I said proudly.

He looked at me. “Those?”

“Yes. And I want charms.”

I don’t remember what charms I picked, just that they were adorable and made no sense together. He bought me the hideous moccasin-esque Crocs. They didn’t match my outfit, but I put them on immediately. My mother-in-law laughed. I grinned and said, “They’re so ugly, right?” She agreed, and on we went.

That was my introduction to Crocs. Over the years, I owned a few pairs, but never truly committed—until recently.

This year, I was scrolling the Temu app. And before anyone starts, yes, I know it’s probably stealing my identity. But listen—I’m broke as fuck, and my identity fucking sucks. Take it. Have fun.

Anyway, I digress. I spotted these ugly pink platform “Frocks” (because let’s be honest, they don’t even deserve to be called Crocs). They were absolutely hideous, and I was in love. For $5.99, it was destiny.

It took about three weeks for them to arrive. When they did, the smell of chemicals hit me in the face like a slap from Satan himself. I took a deep breath anyway, because why not? I was 80% sure my feet would mummify the second I put them on. They were probably soaked in formaldehyde, but true to form, I was willing to take that chance.

Mind you, I’d ordered them pre-summer, and the charms I bought were Halloween-themed, pumpkins, leaves, jack-o’-lanterns. So yes, I’ve been rocking spooky season since July. It’s fine. Halloween is 24/7, 365 in my house.

I slipped on those babies and could feel the essence of the poor Chinese man who made them, thousands of miles away. Suddenly I craved crab rangoons. (Wait, was that racist? Not where I was going with this. I just really love crab rangoons.)

Anyway. I walked down the street to my mother’s house, standing menacingly outside her door in pink donut pajama pants and my shiny new rubber Frocks.

She looked at my feet. “What the hell is that?”

I proudly lifted my foot. “My Crocs.”

She blinked. “Are you wearing those out in public?”

“Uh… yes, obvi.”

And just like that, my love affair with Crocs began again.

I was once more that 24-year-old young bride with cherry lips and ugly shoes. I was happy.

Now don’t get it twisted—I have a lot of shoes. I have an entire closet dedicated to my 6- and 7-inch whore heels. Love them. But these hideous pink platforms? They hit different.

I’d slip on my jeans, cuff the bottoms (gnome problems), glance between my Adidas sneakers and my Crocs—and every time, I chose the ugly pink bastards. I knew people stared at me in the supermarket. I didn’t care. For me, they were freedom.

I wasn’t dressing for attention; I was dressing for comfort. Ease. Joy. When I lived in Florida, I was barefoot half the time anyway. I just wanted to feel good for me.

Sure, I can put on the jeans and stilettos and serve full MILF energy, but sometimes I just want to be left the fuck alone. Let me be me. Let me live.

These ugly Crocs and I have been through a lot lately. Somewhere between the squeaky rubber and the ridiculous charms, I realized something: I people-please way too much. I’m always trying to make others comfortable. But no one’s dressing to meet my specifications. So, fuck that.

Anyway, I’ve ranted enough about footwear. The moral? Do what makes you happy. Wear whatever the fuck you want.

People need to get a hobby.

(And yes—I wrote this entire thing while wearing my pink Crocs.)