This is a nappy, plush toy you win at the fair, not something you put on your person.
No matter how cold it is, you’ll never find me in gore-tex, polartek or any other kind of high-tech synthetic windbreaking, fleece-insulated zippered nonsense. (And hence why, I was not cut out for Oregon. My rain boots have kitten heels.)
Style wins over function every time. There is always a cuter alternative to whatever the most useful or appropriate article of clothing is for a given situation. You do not have to look like a ratty neon polar bear to stay warm.
That said however, in recent years, if something is entirely uncomfortable, I have given up on trying to make it work, regardless of its cuteness. I once bought a pair of size 6.5 open-toed platforms, thinking my size 8 feet would be okay because they could “breathe.” (I’m not sure what I thought was so stylish about dangling toes.) I got crafty with coffee mugs and salad tongs to stretch out the heels, and even paid $12 for a professional to help the cause, only for the pair to wind up collecting dust in my closet corner.
Thirty-three years of this behavior (okay, maybe 18, I wore Keds in elementary school) has taken its toll.
I made the mistake of examining my feet recently. I have a total of five scars, four callused toe knuckles, some weird bone thing protruding from the side of my foot under my big toes, and possibly a bit of death under one toenail if I was ever fully able to remove my nail polish.
With this is mind I went to the store to buy summer sandals. I wound up with a pair of black strappy flats with gold zippers up the back, perfect for all my sassy city walking.
By the end of end of day one, a charcoal film had settled into the crevices of my feet, which were only an eighth of an inch off of New York’s gritty pavement all day; the backs of my heels were blistery from my snazzy zippers.
But I’d already spent $50 and no one can see these covered flaws, so I feel I must be reasonable and continue to wear the shit out of them.