Clair McFarland writes: "For the two hours’ drive home, I resisted all of Firstborn’s arguments that I should like them; that I’m living in a warped reality; that foam foot boats represent a cultural zenith."
Ahhh the August rush.
It’s when 500 Rivertonites converge on nearby Casper to go back-to-school shopping. It’s like the Hell’s Angels tearing out of Oakland, except we’re pillaging the overstock stores instead of the undefended bars.
And I wonder, as I watch the minivans flood the mall parking lot, if the Casper police grip their tasers in dread.
My family didn’t need many new school clothes, thanks to a hand-me-down trove from a friend – so I’m not sure why we went to Casper alongside all our townsfolk. It must have been the pull of instinct, the zombification of groupthink, or the scent of chain restaurants wafting down the highway.
Our first stop was a shoe store, where the twins and Middleborn asked for Hey Dudes – and Firstborn asked for Crocs.
“No,” I said.
I think Crocs are ugly and I have seen them contribute to an ingrown toenail infection, though I’m not going to shame my children, who along with their friends are old enough to search up my columns on Google, by saying which kid had the ailment.
Also, we live in the sage country. No kid should ramble around these hills with holes in his shoes. Just put out an entry mat for the ticks, I guess.
But why would Firstborn accept my “no” when his dad, a vending machine of yeses, was standing nearby, ogling an athletic shoe some communist regime built to shorten his lifespan by putting two inches of rubber foam between him and the blessed earth?
“Dad, can I get Crocs?” asked Firstborn.
“Sure, son,” said The Husband.
“Whut,” I spat.
The Husband shrugged out a gesture which seemed to say, “at least the kid’s not in jail, honey.”
He’s got me there.
Ironically, many jail inmates do shuffle into their court hearings wearing orange Crocs.
I have so many questions about this. Why Crocs? Are they standard issue? Is their sloshing shuffle meant to slow the inmates down? Does this mean I’ve built up the Croc Babel of ugliness with my own tax dollars?
Firstborn tried to explain his request.
“They’re stylish and comfortable, and I mean, they’re like, popular right now,” he said.
My eyes narrowed. “You said the P-word.”
Firstborn took a step back and shook his head, trying to deny it.
The boys aren’t allowed to do things for popularity’s mere sake. If they do something interesting or difficult and it happens to result in popularity, fine. But there’s no dumber use of one’s life than always trying to break into the inner circles, only to expend all one’s cleverness on loyalty tests once inside them.
Firstborn kept arguing – that the shoe is light and airy, that it has many functions besides slowing inmates down. He didn’t convince me, but he convinced The Husband, who gladly bought a pair of size 11 men’s “bone” colored Crocs for the kid.
I hated those shoes and hate them still. For the two hours’ drive home, I resisted all of Firstborn’s arguments that I should like them; that I’m living in a warped reality; that foam foot boats represent a cultural zenith.
And when we arrived back home at our sage haven, Firstborn squelched out into the ooze of a fresh rainstorm and let the mud fill his shoes.
But I’ve got to say, I didn’t mind at all the way his green eyes brightened and his smile cracked uneven, as he sloshed up to the house in “style.”
