vendredi 10 mars 2006

A tale of how I succumbed.

I was dressed in my sunny weather best - my standard uniform of a cute skirt, tank top, and flip flops. For all the shoes I own - and believe me, I own many (yes, even more than in that picture) - I actually don't like wearing any of them, and would take flip flops over heels any day, with this particular brand being my one of choice. Why? Because they're comfy. And they're cheap. And they come in a myriad of colours - a pair for every outfit? Why not! And they're easy to pack. And you can wear them in the water (not that I actually do, but you know, just in case). And they show off a pedicure well. I mean, I'm only at the tip of the iceberg in describing my love for flip flops. Also, since moving back to LA, I've gotten to wear them more often than not, which has just made me so so so happy.

But then. I was with one of my friends, and she had to go to the clog store to buy a new pair of clogs. She's been frequenting this place for the past five years - between being an ex-dancer and getting into a car accident, her knees and back were all sorts of messed up - and she'd proclaimed the virtues of the clog to me many a time, telling me how since she started wearing them her joint/back problems have all but vanished, they're positively miracle shoes - so on, and so forth.

As for me? I thought clogs looked awfully orthopaedic, which in my book equalled unattractive. I didn't care that clogs were all the rage and were oh-so-comfortable and fixed all sorts of ailments. CLUNKY. UNATTRACTIVE. Might as well put me in sneakers. Or Birkenstocks. No. If I'm not in flip flops, then I'm in little spindly heels. That's just the way it goes. When I walk, you either hear the thwacking of rubber against cement, or you hear my heels trotting along the pavement. (I am not a quiet walker.)

So I went with my friend to get her clogs. And as soon as I stepped in, it was like a big bright spotlight shone on my flipflops, and the store ladies (all older Swedish women) came over a-cluckin', shaming me for daring to wear such unsupportive footwear. Why, it was akin to my doing high impact aerobics without wearing a sports bra, and if I suffered from crappy knee and back pains in 25 years, well, I was to remember what they said about how I was ruining my feet with every step I took in flip flops. And that was only the beginning.

I was helpless before their grandmotherly Swedish ways.

Next thing you know, they had me outfitted in a pair of black clogs. With my cute summery skirt, you bet your ass I didn't think they were attractive at all. In fact, they seemed rather like a beacon screaming to all: FOOT PROBLEMS THISAWAY. And the Swedish ladies pointed out that these clogs would realign the way I walked, would help me walk straighter, would actually do the walking for me, would help prevent all future back, knee, and foot problems - and with my flat feet, that I definitely needed help, that famous chefs and surgeons order from them all the time. I mean, it just didn't stop.

By the time my friend had purchased two pairs of clogs (and had tried on like every single freaking clog in the store), I was convinced that I was going to die a horrible painful death with all my bones broken and all my joints shot to hell because I didn't heed the advice of the clog ladies.

Ladies my ass. More like clog nazis.

And I mean that only with the utmost of love.

For yes, their guilt trip was successful, and I was back the next week, this time wearing jeans (and bringing another friend as moral support) so I could see how the clogs would look half-hidden by pants. And you know - they didn't look that bad at all. In fact, unless you owned a pair yourself, you probably wouldn't know that they were clogs (bringing back what my friend had taught me, that she got more compliments on these shoes than any other she owned). I mean, obviously I wouldn't wear anything that would expose them in their full clog glory. But in pants - really, they started to grow on me. And I know that it's only a matter of time before I'm plagued with back problems. And I needed comfortable walking shoes for Paris. And I needed shoes I could wear in the rain (for clogs are both waterproof and have a slip-proof sole). And it was rather nice that I'd get to be almost 2 inches taller due to their tall base.

So yes. Now I own a pair of clogs. Or, as the clog nazis call them, the "gateway clogs", for apparently, after I own this pair, I'm gonna want to own a million clogs.

HAH! That'll be the day. If it's sunny, you bet your ass I'm back in flip flops.

And just so you know that it's the persuasiveness of the clog nazis rather than my own weak will which had me eventually caving, the friend I brought in there - initially determined to hold her ground - also gave in, and now wants like 10 different pairs of clogs.

So if you're in the LA area, and want to check out this phenomenon of the smooth-talking clog nazis for yourself, hie yourself off to the Clogmaster (though in my mind, they'll forever be the clog nazis).

And bring your credit card, because you think you're strong now - but you're not.