Onesie for the Road

The news is not good, people.
I’ve been on the online newspaper again, and guess what?  Guess what this year’s massive Christmas seller is?

The onesie.

I’m not joking.  New Look report that they’re selling a onesie every three seconds.  This is New Look UK.  But it doesn’t bode well, does it?  Twenty people a minute buying a onesie, just in New Look.

I can’t bear onesies.

They’re bad enough as pyjamas, but this new caper of people wearing them out on the streets is frightening.

And in fairness, I wouldn’t imagine they’re much cop as pyjamas either.  I have to imagine that being in bed with someone in a onesie would be both creepy and warm beyond reason.  And any night time piddling would become insanely difficult for them, and cold, I’m sure.  And surely if their bedtime pal was hoping to get lucky, they'd be far too repulsed and tired by the time the damn thing was off to bother?

I blame celebrities.  It used to be the people from the reality shows who'll do anything to be photographed, but now it’s actual famous people.  Those little lads from One Direction have apparently done a photo shoot all wearing them, and Rihanna is also a fan.  These are the people that the next generation are taking inspiration from.  They’re a very bad influence, by any standards.

Having said all that, a much loved family member once bought me a onesie. Naturally, the least I could do was try it on.  I don't know why she bought it. Maybe she was stuck for a Christmas present for me, or maybe she thought I’d look like a big cuddly teddy bear in it. 

I didn’t.  I looked more like one of those strange people who like to dress up as babies for kicks.  And I didn’t think it was that comfortable either, to be honest.  It was too warm and fleecy and slightly claustrophobic and much less comfortable than the average pyjamas.

And His Nibs was definitely not a fan. He suggested, when he saw me, that we might be better off as “just friends”.  We’d been married for about seven years.

I resent that onesies are forcing me further and further into the role of grumpy middle aged person.  I don’t want to be the woman who rolls her eyes and shakes her head at young and fashion conscious trendies.

God knows I’ve never been a stylish sort.  These days I just do my best to cover myself as much as possible.  But for God’s sake.  Surely this is as bad as the shell suit or the mullet?  You’re making fools of yourselves, dear youngsters.  You’re wearing baby clothes.  Pull yourselves together.  You know it makes sense.