I remember waking up on my stomach with my hand applying pressure to my mons pubis. I was eight. I’d had the dry version of a wet dream – and it costarred the class dork, someone who truly lacked any sex appeal whatsoever. I was mortified. Did this transgression warrant a visit from the thought police? Would people know I was turned on by something even I thought was repulsive in the waking hours? Would I, ten years later, experience the same sort of pleasure and shame over a pair of shoes?
I was a late bloomer – I acquired my first (and only) pair of UGGs in 2004, about two years after US Weekly bombarded me with photos of Jessica Simpson that told me I had to buy them or I’d always be able to decipher the difference between canned tuna and chicken. Who could live with themselves knowing the truth about Chicken of the Sea? I received them on my 18th birthday during a celebratory dinner with my family at Applebee’s. It may have come deferred, but I was living the American Dream.
Forgive me for being crass, but wearing UGG boots has to be the female equivalent of placing your penis inside of a warm burrito. The comfort is just overwhelming. The only feeling I can imagine to be more soothing is wearing UGG boots while placing your penis inside of warm burrito, which I can’t do, but if you can, I suggest you try it.
For a time, I wore my UGGs relentlessly – in rain and in snow, in sickness and in health, and I probably wore them while lying on the couch watching television a few times, they’re just so slipper-like, how could I resist? So imagine my disappointment when, according to society, I was expected to just drop them entirely.
This is like finding out the person you love is a serial killer and then having to decide if you’re going to stick around or not. So, yeah, you’re on the FBI watch list and you’ve murdered 13 of your ex-lovers, all of whom fit my demographic profile – we’re supposed to break up now? Even when you’re giving me burrito levels of comfort? Can I at least think about this before we make any brash decisions?
For a while, I submitted to the naysayers. I only wore my UGGs when attending homecoming at my college (where UGGs are and will always remain sacred), or to take out the trash or run to the bodega. I mean, god forbid I enjoy these godsend slipper boots that have survived ridicule and inclement weather far longer than any other shoe I’ve owned.
It’s just… UGG, what did you do? Were you given some sort of Greek mythology ultimatum in which you sacrificed your dignity and reputation for the chance to create the snuggest shoes to ever walk the earth? The contempt you inspire leads me to believe you caught a beej in the oval office and stole Florida during the 2000 election. What gives?
I’ve never seen a hive mentality embrace and reject a trend with such voracity. How did UGGs become a pejorative? Because men think they’re ugly? Because they actually are ugly? People wear ‘ugly’ clothing all the time. Hi velour. Hi tiny vests. Hi those pants that are tight around the ankles and saggy up top, can’t remember your name right now but like, 2% of the population can get away with wearing you and you’re tragic-looking on anyone else. Looking at y’all. Those boots, maybe they’re not a pair of elongating nude pumps. Okay, they’re definitely not a pair of elongating anything. But they’re functional and warm and reliable. I can’t consciously take part in the UGG-bashing that post-grads have rallied around. No more.
Yesterday, I woke up feeling physically ill, the remnants of a birthday celebration for someone whose mind thinks it’s younger than its body still lingering. Pained but plagued with responsibilities, all I could think was, “I just want to wear my UGGs today. Can I live? Can I skip the pretense and just wear the damn things?” The answer is yes. In the words of Barack Obama, YES [I] CAN. If I want to have burrito sex feet, that is my prerogative. This is America, goddammit.
