Purchases that keep on giving #2: Ode to uggboots
These guys. My uggboots. A little slice of comforty-snuggly-sheepskinny Oz goodness where it’s much needed: the frequently sub-zero climes of Bavaria.
When we were kids, Uggs weren’t fashion. You wouldn’t be seen dead in them outside your house. Only the crazy lady with seven kids wore them to the corner shop when she went to grab some milk. I think the first person I saw wearing them “out” was Pamela Anderson in the pages of some magazine on one of my million salon visits during the “impossible hair phase” (which is still going, incidentally). That woman can get away with anything, I thought.
Then I started graveyard shift at the TV station. Midnight to six am, no one around, frosty air conditioning keeping the machinery cool and me in suspended animation. I don’t think I aged a bit during those years. But slowly, the Uggs started coming with me. They brought me comfort, solace, a lack of frostbite. I started looking at them with new respect. They were still utilitarian, but wearing them to what was essentially my office made me feel a little reckless and pioneering. I’d pair them with jeans and use them to crush out cigarette butts when I snuck out for a little break. I was wild.
Then all of a sudden you could wear them out. They changed colours, got buttons and glitter added. Our mutton did truly get dressed up as lamb. Sold for about three times what they had before. They were all over the pages of Who and Grazia. They were a Brand. People wore them to work. For propers.
I know how I sound, like the hipster who burned his mouth because he ate an Ugg boot before it was cool. This is not a rant. This is a love song. I don’t care what happens to Uggies or who wears them where. The more the merrier. There can never be too many uggboots in this world. And they are incredibly appropriate for winters here. Water-proof, toasty and slip-resistant. Just makes sense, yo.
All I care is that my little pair come with me wherever I go. Singing their siren song, beckoning me to slip my feet in, pop them on the ottoman and have a tumbler of whiskey.
Yeah, I’m still wild.