(Reader’s note : This is not actually an ode. I just liked the title.)
This is the Winter of the Onesie. They are everywhere, unavoidable. Just like Uggs and Crocs, the Onesie is yet another example of any hint of style and aesthetics being thrown out in favour of comfort.
I first came across the Onesie this time last year. We were skiing and my friend, already a confirmed Onesie wearer and, I may add, considerably ahead of her time, wore hers whenever we weren’t coming into contact with snow. I had seen adult babygros, even had a couple of my own over the years but this was something different. It was thick, designed to be worn alone or over other garments and incredibly warm. Just the thing when you’re half way up a mountain and it’s -10 outside.
I came home if not inspired to purchase then certainly curious. I mentioned my discovery to my teenagers who were, of course, already aware of this new garment. I thought that it was just me lagging behind the times but many of my friends looked at me blankly when I mentioned the object of my interest.
But I had a problem. I really, really wanted one but:
a) they were quite expensive; and
b) I couldn’t shed the idea that they were quite possibly ridiculous on a woman in her forties.
My children caught me eyeing one up covetously on the internet one day and before I knew it a Onesie was winging its way to us for Child No. 2’s birthday. Within twenty minutes of it arriving I had ordered another one for myself and before I knew what had happened we all had one from The All in One Company. (All except my husband who has steadfastly held on to his dignity.)
I have discovered that Onesies are akin to Marmite. I am most definitely in the love camp but I know many who say they would not be seen dead in one. Well, neither would I if it could be at all avoided. My Onesie is not meant for public consumption. Its purpose is entirely private. At the end of the day when all ferrying is finished and the door is locked against the night, when all danger of visitors has passed and we are truly alone (barring my eldest’s boyfriend) then I slip out of my jeans and into my Onesie and suddenly, as if by magic, I am relaxed. It is as if someone flicks a switch. Jeans = on duty. Onesie = me time.
There are those that argue that the Onesie represents a slip in standards, a letting go of something that should be held on to but I disagree. Why make life uncomfortable? I do my best to be presentable all day but you can’t keep that up all the time. And to me the Onesie has the added advantage of not being a garment to be worn in bed. Putting pyjamas on when the day is not yet over has always struck me as giving up. Wearing a Onesie does not mean that I have sleep in mind. It is simply the most appropriate attire for the next selection of activities – reading, tv, knitting, the things I do to wind down.
I suspect that all those who scoffed at the Onesie are now regretting it a bit. I cannot believe that there isn’t a part of them that wouldn’t like to snuggle down in a super warm Onesie with a glass of wine and a really good book. Well, fear not. I am big enough not to mock if you change your minds. After all, the joy of the Onesie is something that should be shared by everyone.