Opinion: My socks might be soggy, but my heart is full.
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Oregon’s cloudy skies fill my spring afternoons. I hope the rain doesn’t turn into hail today as I pack my bags for my next class. I’ve lived in Gresham, Oregon, just short of four years, so the sudden showers are no surprise to me. As I exit my dorm, I make sure the seatbelts of my Crocs are fastened. My “Cars” themed Jibbitz and I are ready to brave the puddles.
I start on my expedition to the outdoors. As I pass fellow students, I hear someone mutter, “I used to like the rain.” I wonder what changed, and if an opinion on weather is reliant on the consistency of it, how much did they really like the rain before?
The frequent showers don’t bother me. Today I am wearing my corgi socks. I get strange looks from the passersby once they notice the Crocs and socks combination; they fear I will face a damp fate.
The puddles surrounding Hayward Field are barely noticeable due to the glassy looking bricks they cover, but I am an expert rain prancer. My Crocs have miniscule amounts of traction remaining, but I know the angles of the situation. I’m skilled at protecting both the dryness of my socks and my pride.
Sure, I’ve had some slip-ups. The perfectly paved sidewalks around campus are dangerously slick when wet. “I almost ate it today,” is a phrase my roommate has heard a few too many times. But “almost” is the key word in that sentence, and I theorize that the near falls are building blocks of my scrappy nature.
You, and all the other UO students walking in the rain, might wonder why I risk so much every time it rains. Why do I subject my feet to the university’s chilly, muddy, slippery puddles?
Let’s go back in time. Say, 2008. My parents’ financial anguish was no match for my Obama loving, Croc wearing, 5-year-old self. I was a foot dragger. By this, I mean when I rode my scooter, the breaking mechanisms seemed too safe. I wanted something more thrilling. I wanted to use my toes. However, what seemed like a cheap thrill of life quickly turned into tragedy when one day, I tried to break, and my toe hit the pavement.
I had worn an extra hole in the tops of both my Crocs. The tragedy of their worn condition took its toll on my cheerfulness, but not enough to make me quit wearing them. But for my mom, it was too much, and she hid them from me — or rather, tried to hide them from me. I found them, and she hid them again. And there are only so many times a 5-year-old can successfully scrounge Crocs from my mother’s hiding space. One day, they were lost to me forever.
What shoes do I wear now? Will I ever know the toothy smile of my Mater shoe charm again? If keeping my Crocs means an eternity of scrapped up phalanges, I guess I’ll invest in more bandages.
It wasn’t until 2020 that I was broken out of this sadness. The same caring that led my mother to hide my Crocs when I was young led her to gift me new ones. Ever since, I have been skipping the streets in my red Crocs, celebrating what it means to be alive and breathing deeply in the air of joviality.
Rain does not deter this feeling of pure elation. As the clouds gather over the campus, I tighten the straps on my backpack and look down at my Croc-adorned feet with adoration. There is no amount of disapproving looks that would stump my blissful romping.
Through all the spring showers, I will continue to be content in my footwear choices. My Crocs represent a small thing in life that I am grateful for, and one that delivers healthy amounts of nostalgia and serotonin. Regardless of other people’s weather preferences or imposing footwear choices, it’s perfectly acceptable to hold on to the small things that make you happy –– even if they are semi-aquatic, Lightning McQueen-decorated, red Crocs.