In Defense of the Passion Killer.

Onesies holding hands and waving on MM's washing line.

Onesies holding hands and waving on MM’s washing line.

We love to hate them. We berate them and revile them. Yet we’ve all got one hiding in the wardrobe somewhere – that one item of leisure-/under-/sleepwear that makes our other half go spare. Yes, today we’re going to talk about passion killers, which are still very much alive and kicking lingerie-clad butt.

Those of you who have been following the blog for a while know that MM has kept one foot firmly anchored in her youth, so you will not be surprised to learn that my wardrobe also harbours a grown-up reminder of my childhood: my lovely, warm, terry towelling onesie – aka union suit, sleep suit or footed pyjamas.

My onesie and I go together like ramma lamma lamma a ding gadi dinga dong, like ketchup and chips, like Shrek and Fiona… or in PF’s eyes, like salmonella poisoning and sushi. The poor man rolls his eyes every time as he realises that he has drawn the short strawer in the drawer draws.  When he claps eyes on it, his face falls – imagine Brigitte Bardot greeted with a pair of mink-lined suede slippers and a plateful of coq au vin on her arrival home.

On chilly winter nights, I sometimes wriggle it on. I instantaneously become a tellytubby – just add a pair of 1980s wobbly antennae, and I’d be taken on by the BBC in a flash. It is a real onesie complete with feet, meaning that I can lope around the house like the BFG without getting cold tootsies.

Robert negotiated with Gladys, but to no avail: she’d only consider giving up on the onesie if he threw that stinking pipe away. (Photo credit: x-ray delta one)

Here are its advantages:

  •  It is warm and comfy, and reminiscent of a cosy, reassuring childhood.
  • No draughts get in, unlike skimpy, feminine night attire with little spaghetti straps (which is very pretty, but about as heat-efficient as dressing a giraffe in a hand towel).
  • The poppers down the front are the ideal protection from the dreaded handus mannus, a common predatory species that roams at night, preying on innocent women as they sleep.

It also has disadvantages:

  •  It gets PF mad and he sulks.
  • It doesn’t have a hood to keep the cold out of my ears.
  •  It was designed by a man for a man, so the lack of strategically placed poppers is the cause of long-winded negotiations with Mr B, aka my bladder, in the middle of the night. Like having to decide against drinking before you drive, an uninterrupted night’s sleep in a onesie entails the sacrifice of any ritual bedtime bucket of herbal tea/bottle of wine (delete as necessary).

At this point in proceedings I can already hear some readers of this blog howling in protest and clamouring their support for the long-suffering PF. I would argue that the alternative to sleeping in the same bed as a wife masquerading as Yogi Bear is the sobering prospect of ice-cold female feet on male shins. Things could be worse, too: I have yet to acquire the matching bed socks, fluffy slippers, horn-rimmed specs, rollers and hairnet. And if I really wanted to be mean, I could add an avocado facemask and two slices of cucumber for good measure.

I freely admit that a onesie is not the most appealing attire. But let’s face it, “attractive” always seems to go hand in hand with “uncomfortable”. So it is par for the course that comfortable clothes are about as pleasing to the male eye as King Kong modelling the latest line in G-strings from Victoria’s Secrets. I have concluded that comfort and attractiveness are fatally and diametrically opposed, which kind of links up with the saying that we have to suffer to be beautiful.

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Maurice had complained about his wife’s fluffy bedsocks for the last time. (Photo credit: photos.juliechen)

Lastly, onesies make for safe sleep, particularly when combined with their household textile alter ego, the flannel sheet. Confused? Let’s extrapolate. I once spent a night in a friend’s guest room. The waterbed had been kitted out with delicate satin sheets -irrefutably the ultimate in sosphisticated kip equipment. I was shortly to discover that my host had pushed the boat out in more ways than one – every time I rolled over I was tossed in three-foot troughs. Forget the Moody Blues: the hair-raising night in white satin that ensued was along the lines of Géricault’s “Raft of the Medusa“, but solo and dressed in M&S satin pj’s. I slid across the deck like a walrus launched across an ice-hockey field, grasping desperately for a grip on something as the night lit up with the spectacular storm of static electricity.

Now compare this with the honest simplicity of a onesie and flannel sheets. The flannel locks tight with the onesie, the heat stays in the bed, and hey presto: velcro effect. Welcome to the wonderful world of double-sided flannel-tape. You can sleep, toasty warm, in absolute security.

In conclusion… we love to hate the passion killer, but it’s not said its last word just yet. Comfort, nostalgia, warmth, safety. I rest my case. Embrace the passion killer, my friends.

For those who want more of almost the same, dig in the MM’s archives for the underwear drawer conundrum, entitled “Slingshots and Parachutes”, and a description of handus mannus in the highly scientific study, “Nesting and migration in the lesser spotted boob”.
 
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