Friday Shoegasm: Dear Internets, I am so sorry about this

I've spent a lot of time and space on my screen and conversations using language even a shameless shoe whore like me cringes at to describe my hatred of the Ugg over the years. And honestly, it sickens me that it has been years. That's a lot of cussing I could have spent more wisely on the wireless printer I spent $400 and six hours of phone calls with HP but could never get to work, or about Gwyneth Paltrow, or at Bravo for choosing to air "The Notebook" all weekend instead of "Real Housewives" reruns.

But, no, I've put so much hatred into those horrid non-waterproof boots that I stopped seeing their real brand-name and convinced myself they are really labeled Ugghs. And that was fine with me, even when they came from Kohl's and Target and in lavender with crystal-studded skulls embellishing the faux suede sides just below the faux sheerling cuff.

I would rather, I reasoned aloud on many occasion with girlfriends who may have tried to justify the Uggh Boot to me in my five-inch hidden-platform cowboy boots, have on four layers of wool socks and some kind of electric blanket rigged up inside my jeggings than wear those god-awful boots out in the world!

And I meant it.

Until December 1st.

It got just cold enough on la premiere Decembre for a draft to blow in from some strange air tunnel from the arctic through the French doors next to my desk and pool at my toes and ankles as I sat at my desk. It happens every winter, and I spend six(ish) months with a pashmina binding my feet inside my boots while I work.

The difference is that this December 1st, I had brand new neighbors living below me. These neighbors had already complained twice in a matter of days (you will love this, apartment dwellers) that I walk too much. Even without heels, they were not happy with all that pesky making my way from the kitchen to the bathroom and back to my desk that I'd been doing while offensively living and working in my home. I'd admittedly gotten a wee bit lax with the heel-wearing in the month that the place below me was empty and so, of course, I'd need to kick off the heels so my neighbors wouldn't ring my bell again at midnight (oh yes) or 5 p.m. (uh-huh) because of the using of my feet. One option, I surmised, while applying a salve to get the circulation back in my toes, would be to walk double-time to keep my feet warm during the day. This, however, would require strapping my laptop to my body with a crossing guard belt or similar, or using a rolling cart of some kind, so I could work and walk and the same time.

Engineering something and exercising all day just seemed less like a solution and more like letting the neighbor pedi-terror win. I can't move my desk -- it's wedged in between some of the only outlets in the room and a big pile of clutter, so that's out of the question. There are too many bearded guys in skinny jeans at Starbucks, so leaving the premises wouldn't work.

My only other option? Some way to make my feet both warm and quiet.

You might be screaming "SLIPPERS! SLIPPPPPPERS! SLIPPERRRRRRRRS!" at your screen right now, just as I was inside my head (can't speak too loudly now either, considering how T-Rex-like I use my tootsies). But I'd already tried a few pairs of cozy, insulated, even cute ballet-shoe-like slippers and they were slippery and thin and just not keeping out the galestorm from the door to my desk.

I'm sure you know where this is heading. It's OK to shake your head in disappointment. I was saddened by myself. But I had to do it. I had to ask for those damn Uggh boots for Christmas.

I was so shamed that I couldn't bear to ask anyone other than my mother. And I could not bring myself to ask for the real brand, the ones that cost $80 or a thousand hard-earned dollars for misshapen fugliness that renders all lovely feet into the formation of an overcooked loaf of wheat right out of the breadmaker.

"Just get me the kind from Costco," I whispered to her one night from my cell phone. I didn't want to face her with the request. "The lady who waxes my eyebrows told me those are the best."

"How does she know?" My mom said back loudly. She didn't realize this was a covert mission of both temperature and crabby neighbordom.

"She used to work in an office that had really, really cold air conditioning," I explained. "She kept them under her desk for the summer time."

"Ahhh," my mom spoke up. I knew she was in. She'd get them for me. She'd hunt for a pair made from fake pink sheep, but she'd track them down and bind them up in fancy ribbon and save my soles.

I was right. Christmas arrived and the wrapped package -- big like a boot box but weighing only a few pathetic ounces -- made me so happy. Far happier than it should have. I ripped off the paper and pulled out the Ugghs and breathed a sigh of relief.

I put them on right there, saying "thank you, thank you so much" as I did, like I'd never had boots of my own before.

Immediately, my Ugghs became Ahhhs.

What I am about to say takes this whole experience to a place I never thought I'd go, one I have been wary to share with all of the internets, let alone those among you who've asked to see what shoes I am wearing the moment we greet. But here it is, the honest-to-goodness Fake Ugg truth: These boots are fugging amazing.

The moment I put my feet into them, I wanted to run loudly down to my neighbors' place, ring their doorbell ten to twenty times, awake them from their kid-free holiday slumber and do a little dance of happy thanks that all their unreasonable expectations of living on the ground floor of an aged building filled with hardwood floors had led me to this moment of (dare I say?) shoe ecstacy.

I do not want to take these boots off. I do, of course, as I want to maintain their pristine faux suede and wooliness. They are indoor shoes only, and I put them on immediately upon entering my home. Do not first remove your coat, do not stop to pee.

I pad around my place with feet that are cushioned and cozy and quiet and almost sweating they are so warm. I get excited every time I put these terrible boots on my feet. I have even felt sad when I take them off to put my heels back on to leave.

What is happening to my feet? Where has my dignity stepped off to? Why have I let myself fall into the trap of wearing SnUGGies for shoes?

I do not know. I am aware that I'm so late to the Ugg sensation, I might as well be selling Beanie Babies on eBay to fund my next pair. I also know well that I only have the coldness of my neighbors and that draft to blame -- and thank -- for getting me into this glorious, heinous, magical hell.

The next time you clomp up the front steps over my neighbors' condo to visit me, I warn you that you won't hear me coming to greet you at the door. And when I get there, you may not even recognize me. It's probably best. Perhaps you shouldn't look me in the eye. Maybe you shouldn't come over at all. I apologize, America. I've been fugghed.

Comments

[Manic Motherhood]

Try Bearclaws. I think that's what they are called. Too lazy to go upstairs and look. But I found some really cute ones at The Rack a few weeks ago. Good lord they are warm and cozy and a lot like Uggs, only I got them for $39 or maybe it was $49. Hard to remember. I love them.

I wear them and my treasured Uggs out of the house. But only because my feet insist.