Thank you. No really, you SHOULDN’T have.
Someone I know*, who on the basis of having been in my presence more than once, bought me a gift that makes me wonder if they know me at all. On Christmas Day, (already queasy from a bug) , I unwrapped something that I couldn’t actually believe I had unwrapped. This was Twilight Zone: Christmas Hell, or an evil sort of Kris Kindle. A box of the givers clipped toenails would have elicited only slightly less horror. There it was, in all its cheap brushed cotton glory: a onesie. At least that’s what the Americans call them. Some people also call them Romper suits. To me, they’re adult babygros. The kind I once saw worn in a Channel 4 documentary by over-stressed stockbrokers in New York who paid hard cash to hang out in an apartment wearing nappies and being burped by strict Mumsie types (who were raking it in, by the looks of it).
What fashion demigod has decided that the high street masses should be wearing babygros to bed? I looked at it again. An infantilising piece of androgynous get-up if ever I saw one. My husband’s reaction was almost as priceless. Imagine me suggestively leaning against our bedroom door, clad in this red number? He’d sooner throw himself down the stairs than go near me, I’d wager.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not ungrateful. But this gift was also given in a non-ironic, un-Post-Modern way. It’s not like jokingly buying someone a sovereign ring, or a Sacred Heart picture (complete with red bulb for the heart crowned in thorns). Nor was there any chuckling as it was handed over. There was a distinct lack of “Ah, gotcha – here’s your real pressie!”. No, the kind-hearted giver felt there was a onesie-shaped hole in my life and that I would like nothing better than sitting around dressed like a sleepy toddler.
It’s creepy enough that most adult women’s pyjamas come patterned with teddy bears or Minnie Mouse. As someone whose body temperature is usually somewhere on the reptilian scale, I’m all for being toasty, but this babyfication is a step too far. I say we should fight this scourge before they start pedalling us couture lingerie made out of Pampers.
* definitely not my husband