Does my bum look big in this onesie?


I often find myself naked in public situations. But this article is more about the things I wear, rather than the things I don’t.  It seems I can’t even go and see my latest band crush, without leaving the house looking like a massive twat.

As a teenager, I’d worry if my skirt was short enough, or if I had enough inches of my midriff on show. I remember buying a full-length lycra dress, and being relieved there was a giant gash through the middle of it – god forbid I go out with my entire torso covered up. I was (am) sooooo classy.

As a fully grown – but not yet matured – women, my worries over outfits have shifted direction.  Friday night woes are now occupied with thoughts of whether I look ridiculous enough, twatty enough? When did I stop wanting to look hot and start wanting to look stupid?  Funny how things turn out.

In the past few months I have been to parties as/in

–       a disposable superhero, complete with disposable pants worn over shorts, and a disposable glove as a penis. Because a girl always needs a disposable-glove-penis

–       a ziger (using skills of advanced creativity to combine the charms of a zebra and a tiger)

–       a dragon

–       fairy floss

–       pyjamas

–       a dress made out of CDs drilled together (at pain staking effort)

–       a tiger onesie – with sewn in bum flap for easy wee/poo access

–       a bubble wrap ensamble

–       the character of Patsy from AbFab – physically and metaphorically

–       ridden a giant papier-mache dolphin, dressed in a mighty boosh-esq blue sequinned rag dress

–       a hip-hop bitch

–       a 70s hippie chick

–       a Mexican Bandit

–       body  painted. To be more précised, had my tits painted in a night-club. And then followed the painting up with a dance to some dubstep.  Braless. And bouncy…

Fancy dress parties inspire the child, the clown and the fun in all of us. It’s like having a get out of jail free card to excuse bad behaviour. A money-back guarantee that people will be outrageous, and push the limits to the extreme. Just so long as you avoid being arrested. (The riot squad thankfully didn’t take any of us home in their vans when they discovered us raving in the state forest wearing pyjamas at 3am)

Of course there are those terribly uptight souls that can’t bear the thought of wearing clothes that are not their own, sensible items.  Poor bastards. Leading a life so highly strung must be such a bore. These are the types that would rather go to an Anything But Clothes party defiantly wearing a shirt and jeans. Only to find everyone else wearing all manner of get up – bed sheets, shower curtains, leaves, duct tape. Who looks like more of a dick-head in these situations?

Maybe fancy dress is no longer fancy, it’s just dress. High street shops might evolve into themed playgrounds, enchanting customers into their wonderlands with the promise of eccentricity, spitting them back out onto the streets as princesses, gladiators, mythical creatures, whatever the imagination inspires. Politics would be so much more tolerable if Obama wore a big fluffy onsie for all public appearances.

As dressing as the fool at parties becomes more passé, where can we go next to get out fix of silliness?  Well, I’m off to the cinema in my tiger onesie. It’s winter after-all.

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