Greetings, sweet kittens. It's me, Zara, your digital big sister.
While I love the weekend as much as the next free-wheeling, high heel-wearing, winged liner-sporting, booze-swilling, red-lipsticked PARTY GIRL, 99.9 percent of the mistakes I've made in my life have taken place during the weekend. I've spent one too many Mondays spiraling down the dark vortex of weekend guilt, regret and shame.
But hey, don't fret. Because I'm going to be here every Friday to stop you from the awful weekend fuckups that are screwing up your life. Here's this week's Very Important PSA.
This weekend's very important PSA is indeed VERY important, so I strongly advise that you listen to your lesbian big sister right now. This is serious business.
Here it goes, kittens. Here it GOES: Do NOT — I repeat, DO NOT — go out on the town in a onesie this weekend unless you're totally, 1,000 percent certain you're going to get laid.
Now, some of you might call it a "romper," and some of you might call it a "jumpsuit." And if you're from the UK, you probably call it a "playsuit" (which I like because it sounds ~kinky~). But for the purpose of this article, let's call it what it is: a onesie.
Let me give you an example of a onesie to clear up any lingering confusion for those of you who are slow-moving today (like me).
This is me and my best friend Ruba, both sporting shameless onesies last summer in Ibiza. (I'm fully aware of how ridiculous and "trying too hard" we appear, but we were caught up in the Ibiza energy, which tarnishes judgment. We actually thought we looked cool at the time. Gross, I know.)
Ruba is wearing the strapless, pink, floral onesie, and I'm wearing the more conservative (and not very flattering) blue onesie. Neither of us got laid that night. It wasn't a wise choice in wardrobe for two single, sexless girls carousing around Spain, but we were too buzzed the entire trip to know better.
"What the hell are you talking about, ZARA? What's wrong with wearing a onesie, and why are you single-shaming? Single people can wear onesies, too." I can hear your harsh thoughts and can even feel the collective eye-roll. I totally get where you're coming from, but hear me out, sisters.
I'm going to give it to you hard today. If you wear a onesie tonight and don't bring anyone back to your cute, little apartment, you WILL get stuck inside the onesie. Then, you'll either end up sleeping in it (which will send you spiraling into a weekend-long depression), OR you'll end up cutting yourself out of it with scissors.
That's pretty dangerous when you've been drinking (PSA within this PSA: Do not operate machinery or sharp objects, including scissors, when intoxicated). And we both know that neither me nor you can afford to be cutting up our clothes. We just aren't in the financial place to be recklessly ruining the things we spend our hard-earned money on (yet).
At this stage in life, who knows if we can even afford to buy another precious onesie again? It could all fall apart tomorrow.
Truth be told, onesies are my favorite things to wear. I'm known for my onesies. I officially ~endorse~ onesies. You don't have to go through all the trouble to pick out a matching top, and a onesie is better than any dress on the market because you don't even have to wear underwear. You don't even have to wear a bra, really.
You just throw on a onesie, and you're good to go, baby. You're totally naked underneath and totally free to sit at the bar with open legs (trampy, I know).
But herein lies the trouble with onesies: They're hard to get in and out of sober, and it's even more difficult when you've been drinking your face off all night long.
Onesies are hard to get out of sober, let alone drunk.
See, most onesies zip up really high in the back and take a village to wrangle out of (unless you're a total yogi, in which case I doubt you even clicked into this article because you're probably too busy drinking liquid kale or something. But that's neither here nor there).
Let me tell you my own personal onesie horror story. One night, I put on a fierce new onesie. It was a cut-out onesie with some bold bare flesh exposure. It was pretty scandalous, even for someone salacious like me. But hey, this onesie fit me so well, it might as well have been custom-fit for the likes of my body. And I don't have an easy bod to clothe. I'm very long, and most onesies give me camel toe.
But not this onesie. It was perfect. It didn't even brush up against the crotch (which I find super annoying).
I was also really excited to be wearing this new outfit because I was newly single and going to a promising lesbian party, and I hadn't been laid in a year... maybe more.
See, I had been nursing a broken heart, and I totally lose my sex drive when I'm depressed. But, I was finally in that beautiful place where I was coming out of the heartbreak fog and ready to remerge onto the dating scene.
And what better way to re-enter society than in a gorgeously fitted black onesie? That night, as I was getting ready, I waited until the very last minute to put my outfit on. I was that excited to wear it. Fully mascara-ed, I eagerly wiggled my body into the plush fabric, but no matter how hard I stretched my arms, I couldn't zip it up to the very top.
"Mom, can you help me?" I yelled, suddenly claustrophobic. I kept contorting my arms in an attempt to zip it myself like the independent woman I am, but I could feel the dreaded little beads of sweat making their way down my forehead.
My mother, who happened to be in my apartment at the time, came hurdling into my room, cup of tea in hand and ready to rescue whatever "getting ready emergency" was going on.
"Darling, good luck getting out of that tonight," she primly purred, narrowing her eyes as she firmly zipped up my onesie with the confidence only a lioness mother can embody.
"Whatever, mom. Don't discourage me on my first night back out. I'll get out of it totally fine. I'm just sore from the gym," I smiled with the deep insecurity only a fragile, newly single girl can embody.
My mother shook her blonde head and took a smug sip of tea. She knew I was a lost cause.
I went into the bathroom, sprayed my body with Tom Ford's Violet Blonde fragrance and strutted out the door and into an Uber — terrified to be back out, but feeling superficially OK because I had my black onesie to protect me from the piercing sting of rejection, right?
Wrong, but I didn't realize that yet.
You know how on the few nights that you're actually on the prowl, nothing ever happens and you don't even mildly flirt with someone?
I did all the proper "pulling" things. I drank the tequila. I trolled the room. I talked to everyone. I batted my lashes. I did my best to radiate sexual energy.
And even though I was so thirsty, I would have dramatically dropped my standards that night, I still ended up with no phone numbers, no prospects and no dance floor kisses. I was hopeless, single and alone.
So, I stumbled into a taxi at midnight and went home solo. I couldn't wait to tear off my onesie and get in bed wearing nothing at all because that's the best feeling in the world. Freshly pressed sheets against bare skin is heaven to the single girl.
Freshly pressed sheets against bare skin is heaven to the single girl.
"Screw this!" I thought to myself as I flew into my apartment. "I just want to get in BED!"
I kicked off my painful heels and went to unzip my onesie when BAM: I couldn't reach the top zip. And why did I suddenly have to go to the bathroom really badly?
I wrestled with the top zip for a good 10 minutes. I felt like a redneck wrestling an alligator. At this point, I was WILDLY claustrophobic and starting to go into full-blast panic attack mode.
"What if I never get out of this onesie again? GAH!" I yelled out loud, sending the cat running across the room, bewildered and afraid of her owner's meltdown.
Something came over me, kittens. I slowly walked into the kitchen, grabbed the scissors and cut my new, favorite, gorgeous, perfectly fitted onesie off my body. I blacked out as I did it. It was like an out-of-body experience. I watched myself do it from the other side of the room.
And the moment it fell off my body, I came to. I had just savagely slashed my favorite outfit.
And that's because I didn't know the golden rule: No one should wear a onesie when they're going home alone. You'll end up with ripped clothes or, like I said, falling asleep in it and waking up feeling uncomfortable and unsure as to how you'll ever go to the bathroom.
It's an ugly, ugly scene.
So, girl, I don't care how cute your new fall onesie is. Unless you're cuffed up or in a solid hook-up buddy situation, lay off the onesie.
It will send you spiraling. It will be that bizarrely simple thing that sends you flying over the edge of sanity. Don't think it won't happen to you.
No. One. Is. Safe.
So, if you're tempted to break the golden fashion rule, imagine me sitting in your bedroom as you get ready. I'm wearing a high-waisted fit and flair skirt and a black crop top.
The skirt unzips easily, so I'm free to get drunk tonight without the fear of getting stuck in my clothes. I'm alleviated of the pressure to go home with someone I don't like just so they will help me out of my outfit. I'm shining with the glow of independence.
"Don't wear it tonight. Don't wear it tonight. Don't wear it tonight," I'm telling you as I sip on a martini.
"Because I won't be there tonight to help you out of it," I warn, tapping my long, red nails against the glass before disappearing into the thin air like "I Dream of Jeannie."
So don't do it. Message me if you have to! I'm your lesbian big sister, and I'm here to protect you from the throes of the weekend spirals, and trust me when I say this is a total spiral trigger.
I've been there. I've done it. Learn through my mistakes.
Put on that crop top, rock that vintage dress or wear freaking boyfriend jeans. I don't care. I'll never tell you again what to wear because I don't believe in fashion fascism, but this shit is real.
Zara, Your Lesbian Big Sister