I told Jane that I spent two hours in a clog store and her response was, 'OH, DEAR GOD.'
So I tried to defend myself.
I was in the store for two hours because I was busy talking to the Swedish owner about her hometown of Gothenburg, which I've been to, and whenever I get the chance to say Gothenburg in Swedish, 'Yetehbooooooreh,' I take it.
I was also shooting the shit about how my foot pronates. Which, while not exactly thrilling, was satisfying in a way that only the spawn of Bob Roncker's Running Spot would understand.
I was also mes-mer-i-z-ed by the clogs.
I realize that even with every color and style possible, clogs might still be a tough sell. Last time I checked, Swedish people used them mainly for gardening. But to Jane I said, 'Don't forget the chefs! And hospital workers! They're wearing the hell out of clogs. All across America!'
I knew I was skating on extraordinarily thin ice because if I was going there, I was potentially associating myself with those checkered tapered wrestling-type pants that chefs also wear and THAT would be an issue. That would be what I call an indefensible argument.
Unless it's Halloween and you're also wearing a long blond mullet wig with a bunch of feathers behind your ears like Dog the Bounty Hunter. And actually it's still a bad idea.
But I didn't care. Because the clogs I picked out are BIKER CLOGS.
That right. That's what I'm about: Fucking up a genre, a FOOTWEAR GENRE. And maybe other genres, too, I don't know.
What you can't see so well in this photo is that the biker strap, the one that signals how tough I am, is made of blue patent leather. OMG, as they say.
These clogs remind me of the girl who told me in tenth grade that she couldn't figure me out because I seemed a little punky, a little crunchy, a little nerdy, and a little sporty. I was dabbling in each teen stereotype and I remember thinking that if she was confused, to consider how I felt. Like I knew where I fit in.
I also wonder if the fact that no one can figure out my Spice name right now might not also apply. My colleagues and I are all getting our own Spice names and some of them have stuck. Mine keeps changing.
There are moments where my name makes sense, like when I woke up after having eaten everything in the minibar and thought, 'I feel like Shitty Spice,' but that didn't last. Plus we're not allowed to name ourselves. Our Spice names must MANIFEST.
Max, displaying much insight for someone who doesn't know me well, suggested Sarcastic Spice. I tried to go with a temporary Mystery Spice, but our director became jealous and immediately crushed it since Mystery Spice sounds kind of sexy and she's having enough trouble fighting her own Budget Spice (AKA Tight Spice) without me batting any spicy eyelashes and making her feel bad.
She's now trying to peg me with a retaliation Junkie Spice which is unfair mainly because I'm not a junkie. Junkies don't wear clogs. Please.