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Jun 02, 2023

What makes me happy now: my Instagram slippers

How a pair of synthetic booties have seen the author through a grueling book

How a pair of synthetic booties have seen the author through a grueling book tour and an environmental calamity

Growing up a first-generation Filipina in a rural mostly white town, banal objects such as slippers took on outsized significance. Just like Mother Goose stories, Lunchables and VHS players (we had a Betamax), slippers – specifically my parents’ disinterest in and lack thereof – were proof that no matter how "American" we were, we were always inherently foreign. Rather than plush slippers, our family had flimsy tsinelas. The closest I could come to making these cheap, indoor flips-flops feel lavish was by wearing them with socks. (Today, as an adult, I believe this look to be an absolute Asian flex, but in childhood it was humiliating.)

In my teens and 20s, I messed around with Totes and Isotoner slippers, and swiped the complimentary terry slippers from hotels. But no version ever stuck. After becoming a parent in my 30s, I realized I needed to get serious about the need to be as comfortable as possible during the years’ worth of nights spent at home. So I took up the slipper hunt again.

I invested $100 in LL Bean's bestselling Wicked Good Slippers. These sheepskin booties lined with lamb's wool have that minimalist, "natural" vibe I associate with white women living a life of effortless grace. The footbed was indeed cloudlike and dreamy and they felt luxe and toasty, but after a few months, the spell was broken. All that animal hide and hair made my feet sweat. Eventually the slippers started to reek, the vinegary scent of fermenting dead skin and toe jam. I tried stuffing them with deodorant sneaker balls, but could fathom no real or satisfying way to wash them. Having paid a high price for the slippers, I continued wearing them. But the smell and attendant shame got worse, and I began to think that maybe I just wasn't a slipper person after all.

I don't remember how exactly I encountered the Bombas Gripper Slippers, but in the interest of transparency, it was most likely via an Instagram ad. I made the switch three years ago and never looked back. The Bombas are lightweight, and have the delightfully nebulous, relaxed shape of a sock bootie, like a person confident enough in their capabilities and identity to slouch without worrying that doing so might make a bad impression.

The Gripper Slippers have a bit of wool in the outer layer, but really they are a panoply of synthetic materials: acrylic, nylon, rayon, polyester, spandex and silicone. They come in a range of colors spanning from subtle to bold, with a coziness of indeterminable geographic origin, as though a Fair Isle sweater made love to an ikat rug. The inside linings are the perfect heather gray. The interior reminds me of the most utilitarian sweatpants.

In 2022, these slippers accompanied me on book tour, a jumble of seemingly endless walks down airport hallways, flights and hotel rooms. They come with their own felt travel bag, so it's easy for them to join me – for a weekend, a week or just an overnight trip. I wore them during a live cable news interview in one of those hotel rooms while at my first artist residency in the snowy Catskill mountains. They joined me at a global gender equity conference at a five-star resort where each night a kind staff member would turn down my sheets, put on relaxing music and leave a pair of hotel slippers at the foot of the bed. (Not that I strayed from my trusted Bombas.)

Just before the start of 2023, rainstorms and historic high tides caused my parents’ property on Washington state's Hood canal to flood. I watched their yard become an extension of the ocean, sea and septic water bubbling up through the concrete floor of their family room. After the panicked furniture moving and mopping came the reckoning that, as sea levels continue to rise, our family must assume this will happen again.

In the days and weeks since, my spouse and I, along with beloved friends, came together to build a makeshift sea wall. We rolled massive rounds of Douglas fir trees felled on the property to the shoreline, lashed them together with metal strips and screws, anchored them into the ground with fence post menders and massive framing nails. At the end of each workday, my body ached, my boots were soaked through and my dogs were barking. After a hot shower, there was exhaustion and ibuprofen – and my slippers.

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It may be a stretch, but it feels true to say that my slippers assist in mindfulness, a spiritual practice I’ve been attempting for the better part of a decade. They bring me into the present moment, ground me, help me to accept what is before me. Climate change is no longer a looming threat, but a present reality that I cannot shelter my children from.

When my slippers inevitably begin to smell worn and sour, I throw them in the washing machine on delicate cycle with all the practical clothing that comprise my middle-age uniform: elastic waist french terry pants, soft bras, high-rise panties. I tumble-dry them on low. Yes, I sweat a lot and I occasionally stink, but it's not a problem. I am normal, manageable, deserving of comfort. I am here, silicon nubs gripping the floor, holding on to hope.

Angela Garbes is the author of Essential Labor and Like a Mother, both from Harper Wave, an imprint of HarperCollins