It’s not that I don’t know that they’re ugly and over. It’s that I don’t care.
I was part of the craze several years back, I admit. I’m guilty of wearing my resplendent new Uggs to a Flyers game the day after they arrived in the mail. In May. And pairing them with bare legs and a denim skirt. I had been on a waiting list for my bulky sheepskin-under-suede boots for approximately seven months. (And no, I can’t believe I just wrote any of that.) I remember contentedly riding the Broad Street Line, sweating.
But today’s celebrity rags no longer feature pictures of Kate Hudson boho-chicly running her errands in hers, and waiting lists are a thing of the past. Actually, you can’t enter any footwear-vending establishment without tripping over boxes of them. Uggs have become — much like the circa-1983 white-Reeboks-and-Wigwams-with-a-business-suit commuter ensemble — something for the well-heeled to sniff at on Walnut Street.
But here’s the thing: Despite their innately and offensively unfashionable shape, and even though they get horribly dirty very quickly, and although wearing them with an otherwise normal outfit makes you look as though you’ve wandered out of your home in your slippers, Uggs are the single most wonderful thing a human can put on his or her body, even more wonderful than a tan, a wedding ring, or a tattoo for a deceased loved one. These heinous boots are so glorious — especially, obviously, this time of year — in their warmth and comfort and refuge that any woman who suffers through life without them merely because they aren’t cute or because they aren’t a thing anymore should feel more shame in their absence than in pairing them with her best Tory.
Or, perhaps more succinctly, as SoJo’s own Kelly Ripa recently declared upon injuring her hip and being forced off her six-inch Loubs: “God. Bless. The Uggs.”