As I clicked to purchase my latest billowy, featureless set of full-body pants, I realized that I may have a problem. Or my closet does. In that it’s full of fucking jumpsuits.
I’m no fashionista. I thrift like a fiend, but not for those one-of-a-kind risky vintage pieces I imagine Chloë Sevigny digging through racks for. I wish that was me, but I don’t really have a «style» (interesting or otherwise) and instead I usually look for the kinds of vaguely name-brand shit I refuse to pay top dollar for new. Otherwise I wait for stores to put their sale stuff on double sale and then buy whatever is left in my size.
All of which is to say that I don’t really follow, or even comprehend, trends. The closest I ever got to being on-trend was buying a pair of knee-high fake biker boots out of a Delia*s catalog in the late 90s. And then jumpsuits made their resurgence. It started, oh I don’t know, a few years ago? I definitely wasn’t paying attention, and then I started seeing all these pretty ladies flouncing down the New York City sidewalks in glorified onesies. And I hated them (the jumpsuits, not the ladies — I’m not THAT judgmental. Usually.).
So I certainly didn’t hop on the bandwagon from the start. As is my usual M.O., I joined well after the craze had hit it’s peak. Because that’s when the shit goes on sale (duh), and by then you’ve witnessed so many people wearing so many ridiculous getups that you forget it ever seemed weird in the first place. Except rompers. I don’t do rompers, they still just look weird. Splitting hairs, but as the great Lin-Manuel Miranda sang, «If you stand for nothing, Burr, what’ll you fall for?»
I wish I could say that once I tried on a jumpsuit, I understood the fascination. Logically, on paper, it all makes sense — they combine the throw-on-one-thing-and-you’re-done ease of a dress with the versatile comfort of pants. In reality, however, they are a nightmare. Finding the right size is an exercise in sheer luck. The torso is too short, or too long! The crotch rides or drags! The ass pouches or wedges in your crack, and you can’t do anything about it!
(In retrospect, this may be why I have stockpiled so many jumpsuits over the years. Once I find one that does, miraculously, fit my frame, I feel compelled to purchase it for posterity. Like a me-sized jumpsuit is some weird object of intrigue that I must collect and display to prove it actually exists.)
The other problem with jumpsuits isn’t noticeable in the store. You won’t discover it until you buy it, take it home, and then try to wear it for a full day. The problem? Bathrooms.
With pants, you pull them down. With dresses, you hike them up. With a skirt, it’s dealer’s choice. But with a jumpsuit, YOU HAVE TO TAKE IT ALMOST COMPLETELY OFF. That’s right, you have to get naked every time nature calls. Have you ever gotten naked in a public bathroom stall, squatting over a toilet and trying to keep a full body’s-length of clothing off the filthy bathroom floor? Welcome to the joys of the jumpsuit.
Maybe I just get off on misery, but naked bathroom sessions be damned, I kept on buying fucking jumpsuits. Baggy hippie ones that look like a human parachute. Fancy, flowing ones that basically look like dresses anyway so what’s the point? I even own two denim jumpsuits. Two. Which means at some point in my life I consciously made the decision that owning one denim jumpsuit wasn’t enough. In total, I think I own an astounding nine — with one more on the way. No amount of discounts and deals can justify this. It’s utterly absurd. I think I own more jumpsuits than underwear. I’m a monster.
This has been my confession to a hideous crime against fashion, logic, decency, humanity, and my own sense of self.