A few months back I embarked on a rant about my utter repulsion of the onesie (say it like you mean it!) and how stupid I thought they looked.
My mother bought me one for Christmas.
Aha! I thought. Great joke! I’ll wear it round the house on Christmas day and then never wear it again. My sister actually got two for Christmas, as she really wanted them, and my Mum had gone to the trouble of getting me one without feet, as she knows I can’t stand to be hot in bed. I paraded it round the house, declared it too hot to wear when sleeping, and after doing a catwalk parade to Emma whilst wearing it, I put it in the drawer.
Last week, I was really cold and couldn’t find my usual PJs. I foraged around in the drawer for something to wear, and came across a familiar red fleecy thing, complete with white snowflakes. My onesie!
I put it on and slept like a baby for the whole night. I woke with a shock as my alarm went off and declared to the office that it was the best sleep I had ever had, whilst not dosed up on Night Nurse( I am determined to kick my habit in 2012. Drug free for 22 days! Hehee). My opinion on the onesie had changed, and the love affair began. I began to think if it was socially acceptable to take it round to the boys house and concluded that it was possibly a bit early on for that, and if I was to ensure he didn’t die of over laughter then I should just keep it at home.
That day at work all I could think of was the fact that I now was a sleeper like the rest of the world, and dreamt of rushing home, having a bath and putting my onesie on. Onesie and me, against the world, anti insomniacs forever. I should have known it wasnt to last.
I woke up in the early hours of the next morning dying. This is the only way I can describe it; I felt like someone had microwaved me and I was just about to pop. The damn onesie! I immediately took it off and opened a window, but had to sleep on top of my duvet for the rest of the night, such was my overheating!
I wrote this post a week or so ago, and had declared my onesie and me were through. But after going separate ways with the boy, and then some pretty confusing revelations today, me ad my onesie are now firmly the best of friends again. I haven’t been able to do anything today; reading a book makes my mind wander and TV isn’t distracting enough to soothe my hurt and curb the feelings of mistrust, so me and my onesie have just lay in bed, wrapped in duvets, thinking of happier times. Namely being in Spitalfields market all those months ago and feeling seriously content.
Contentment will return; I’m not needy or jealous and I am confident enough in myself to know that I am pretty special, but for now my onesie envelopes me like a great big hug and all is fine, as long as I remember to take it off before I go to bed.