The vernal equinox has come and gone and though it might still feel brisk in various pockets of this great nation, one fact is irrefutable: it’s clog time.
Wedged in between the ugly time and the horny time, clog time is a brief window of weather in which it is warm but not uncomfortably so; the sun is out for a very long time and it is crisp but also sort of swampy? Humidity lurks, waiting in the wings, but it is not present enough to make life miserable just yet. Sneakers, boots, and socks are now the enemy: the feet want to be free, but are not quite ready for prime time. Sandal season is a few months away, but clog season is NOW. I am consumed with the idea of clogs. It’s time.
Instagram is partially to blame for my clog fever, thanks to a particularly pernicious ad for Charlotte Stone, a shoe company I’ve never heard of but have seen in sponsored posts in my feed. This company has embedded itself in my brain to the point that I found myself googling various permutations of “Instagram shoe clogs ads” to find their website. The algorithm won and has clearly been on my ass like white on rice: these clogs are the clogs I have seen in my brain when I close my eyes and think about what clogs should be. Maybe Aidy Bryant’s green clogs in Shrill have inspired me, or maybe I have lived in Brooklyn for too long—whatever the reason is, I want clogs and I want them right now.
Clogs communicate a studied insouciance that a sneaker or a boot lack; they’re essentially a sandal, but with the added benefit of hiding hideous toes that aren’t quite ready for prime time. Warmer weather—not too hot, not too cold—is the perfect time to start acclimating the foot to being outside once more. Let the heel breathe. Expose your ankles. Feel the breeze on four square inches of foot. It’s spring and my ankles could use a little lotion, but please don’t worry, I’m working on it.
It’s nice to just slide into a shoe that doesn’t require any further effort. Fuck laces. Fuck zippers. Give me something into which I can gently wedge my tamale foot and be off—to the farmer’s market, darling, or to the corner store, or maybe just wherever the hell I want, because I’m comfortable and fashionable and also casual and breezy! There I go, traipsing to meet my lover, who will ply me with ceramics and dried lavender and a single (vegan!) macaron. What’s in my bag? According to my clogs: a waterlogged New Yorker, a single orange peel (for my compost), and they keys to my house upstate.
Clogs are not for everyone, including but not limited to Deadspin editor in chief Megan Greenwell, who expressed to me that her spring shoe of choice is a loafer, not a clog, “because I am not Danish nor Mario Batali.” While both these things are true for me, to the other Megan, I say, pooh pooh. It’s clog time, bitch! Gimme clogs.