It's no wonder guys need nights off from us

I'm well aware of and by no means immune to that distinctly female instinct whereby witnessing another woman's failure brings with it a twisted, indulgent pleasure. And I don't just mean hush-hush failures divulged over cocktails in a "please-don't-tell-so-and-so" manner but failures that are brought to light in a very public way, during the lunch-rush, in front of your ex, his new girlfriend and that handsome older man who oh-so-subtly schedules his Cosi run every Wednesday to align with your own.

The degree to which female X wants a particular failure to hurt female Y depends somewhat on the nature of their relationship (e.g. acquaintances, friends, good friends, very good friends, etc.), but not as much as one - a man - might think. I've found, through both my own unconscious reactions and the voiced reactions of the few women in my "very good friends" circle, that even after years of holding back hair following rowdy nights at the Big Hunt and lying through our teeth and agreeing that yes, of course it was his fault, we still relish a wee bit of the as-long-as-it-didn't-happen-to-me female failure.

Because it is the portal to a female's inner-dialogue, let's discuss "the look." Ladies, you know what "the look" is. You get 'em and give 'em on a daily basis. On the subway, on the street, in a staff meeting, at a restaurant -- no venue is impervious to a situation in which the bitch-stare may be deployed. Each woman has her own signature variation of "the look." Most of the women with whom I associate have not just one but an entire arsenal of oh-no-she-dih'int looks, all of which have the same three-letter endgame that starts with "W" and ends with "F." Some are delivered with a lip-bite and an eyebrow-raise, some with a smirk and a just-barely audible hmpf, and some, like the ones I most often launch at women who teeter around ConnAve Spanx-free in their wrap-up-the-calves evening shoes and metallic halters at 12:30pm on a Monday, are all about the deadpan, "you're aware of what you're wearing, yes?" eyes.

So anyway, the point is, I'm so well-versed in recognizing these kinds of expressions that when an itty-bitty blond in a light brown pantsuit and black Reef flip-flops stood next to me on ConnAve/M and turned her face toward me as I returned to my office from lunch this afternoon, I knew exactly what was on her mind.

I didn't need outside confirmation or a second look to know what it was she was throwing my way. With my keen peripheral vision, I saw her glance down at my admittedly very tall 4.25-inch vintage croc-embossed peep-toes, then give me (or my shoes, rather) the exaggerated eye-roll where your entire face can't help but get involved, and followed that up with the slow-mo head-shake -- it was without a doubt an "I don't know who you think you are, but I hope you fall flat on your fantastic ass in front of the entire intersection" look she was burning white-hot into my right temple.

Okay, maybe I imagined the "fantastic ass" part, but you get the point.

This woman didn't know me, she didn't know whether I was good-natured or the kind of person who would give a homeless man pocket change, and yet there she was, secretly hoping I would fall and raspberry my knee or full-on break an ankle. Judging from the severity and persistence of her look, I'm guessing it was not just the latter but a full-on projected fantasy in which the broken ankle led to full-body atrophy, bed sores and the loss of my dog who, quite realistically, would soon run away in search of a more attractive owner.

Ironic thing is, given different circumstances, she and I probably would have gotten on quite well. We still might some day. In DC, you never know. We were both young professionals with Treos, both runners (Asics Kayanos tied and slung over her daybag), both readers (Auster hardcover tucked neatly between her laptop and a three-inch accordion folder) both in the black toe polish club -- heck, she and I had more in common at first blush than most of my friends and I do.

Yet there we were, I to her, the uppity bitch in sky-high heels, and she to me, the lazy bitch who needed flip-flops to walk three blocks for a burrito.

In an attempt to deescalate the situation for the remainder of the 14 seconds the gymnast and I were to share the curb, I turned off the side-vision and went to click from Gwen's punchy-poppy "Rich Girl" to the soothing calm of Phil Collins' "One more night." But just before my right index finger could counterclockwise its way from 'Playlists' to 'Sofitel Mix' to 'Track 1,' a woman in a two-sizes-waaay-too-small Granny-Smith-green terrycloth jumpsuit, filthy white wedged flip-flops, and a shock of platinum blond fuzz inserted her at least mid-50s, gum-snapping, cell-phone-on-speaker self between the two of us.

And that's all it took. Our pie-eyed stares locked and instantly all the vitriol and all the judgment we'd each built up for the other over the course of a two-block walk Care-Bear-Stared into a single stream aimed at the much larger problem.

There are offenders, after all, and then there are offenders.

Crocs rebuttal

In response to the "but they're comfortable" excuse:

Comfort may be a reason to buy something to wear in private (that explains why I own tapered Army sweatpants and three adult-size onesies), but it is NOT an acceptable justification for wearing said item in a public space, especially if that item is a pair of Crocs and you are a professional woman with dignity and at least 20/800 vision.

Imagine if you will the kind of world we'd have to live in if everyone wore whatever they wanted just because it was "more comfortable."

There would be pajama pants, fleece socks and bralessness in corporate meetings, there would be platform flip-flops, spandex shorts and oversized t-shirts on dates, there would be muscle tees and Mephisto sport sandals at happy hours, and eyebrow, leg, armpit, back and down-there hair growing wild and unkempt, peeking out of hemlines, necklines, waistlines and sleeves in every crowded subway car. If you think you're not having enough sex right now, just imagine how little you'd have if your boyfriend, wife or whomever felt (s)he had the right to dress, wax and tweeze however they - not society - deemed appropriate. He might be that one guy who listens with sincere interest about the people at your work and he may be that one guy who knows to calm you down with a pint of B&J Phish Food when you're acting like a demon-bitch three days before your period, hell, he may even be "the one," but I guarantee you if this soulmate of yours allowed a unibrow to settle above his nose-bridge, grew a T-shaped back-rug and decided to roll up to your best friend's wedding commando in his favorite Redskins-embroidered Zubaz pants, "Lickalotapus" hoodie and a pair of emerald green man-Crocs, your sex-drive would plummet about as quickly and extremely as Bill Clinton's does every time he hangs his head and walks in the front door.

You may think I'm going to the extreme end of extreme to prove my point, but frankly, I think Crocs are just as extreme in their offensiveness as any of the items I've enumerated above. Like denim stretch pants, Crocs are the quintessential example of a 100%-function-over-fashion item.

Look, I believe in indulging in ugly comfort when it comes to your own residence, but when I kiss my puppy's underbelly goodbye and cross that threshold into the no-longer-my-private-space public domain, the balance tips the other way --- as it should for everyone.

Where you fall in the fashion/function debate is up to you obviously, but just ask yourself this one question: what's more important, the comfort of an anti-microbial dishwasher-safe shoe and an extra $600 from not getting your hoo-hah Brazilianed for a year, or the confidence you gain from knowing you look your best and a sex life that consists of more than just the let's-both-look-to-the-side-and-get-this-over-with and the it's-your-birthday-so-I'll-allow-it-but-hurry-up positions?

Seems obvious to me.

Why? No seriously, *why* are you wearing those?

Last night, on my abbreviated-due-to-weather "heel-hike," I saw no fewer than six pairs of these inexplicably popular plastic/rubber/latex-looking nightmares known as "Crocs."

I don't get it. I just don't get it.

Birkenstocks, though ugly and more often than not on the feet of that cruel kind of Mom who doesn't believe in allowing her kids to eat sugar even on their birthdays and Easter morning, are at least ergonomically designed to give its wearer proper arch support.

Reebok crosstrainers, though a glaring red flag for that insufferable type of woman who has the gym staff oust you off treadmill #5 for running 2 minutes over the allotted 30 only so she can climb on with the latest issue of Cat Fancy and walk at a 1.0 incline at 3.5 miles per hour, are at least a sign of...I don't know, someone trying to improve upon her two-lane-road waistline.

There are a dozen other kinds of "commuter shoes" I could discuss and about which I'm sure I could think of at least one redeeming - i.e. from the wearer's perspective, not mine - characteristic, but in the consideration of time (I'm running late), I need to bring to the forefront the downright scary phenomenon of the ubiquitous aerated plastic gardener's clog in NW DC.

These are objectively the ugliest shoes on the market. I've asked enough people on all points of the fashion spectrum -- this is an inarguable fact. Just because these things are available in punchy colors like orange, cotton candy pink and tie-dye doesn't make them look like they belong any less to a giant Cabbage Patch doll or a patient in a mental hospital who can only be given "safe" materials.

So if they aren't fashionable, what is their draw? Is it that they're anti-microbial and odor resistant? Is it that they look ironic in contrast to the rest of your put-together outfit? I see them on young people, older people, overtly wealthy looking people, scrappy looking no-goods, the curious devotion for Crocs knows no gender or socioeconomic boundaries.

To be honest, I'm completely vexed by their popularity. In the past two years, I've watched as the typical comfort-first suspects - Moms, kids and fat women - began wearing them, but now, if yesterday's random sampling was any indication, the virus has spread to sectors of society typically impervious to the function-over-fashion attitude such as men, college students and women with "normal" BMIs.

My only advice - aside from changing the theme of your next neighborhood party from "Not Oktoberfest - Bethesdafest!" to "Croc bonfire" - is to stop the cycle in its tracks. As awww-aren't-they-cute? as those "Kid Crocs" may initially look, put them down, walk away, and either let your little ones channel their inner-hick and spend the summer barefoot or spend the same amount of cash on some Chuck Taylor All-Stars.