My name is Bella and I spend way too much time getting ready to go out.
I am that girl who always takes an hour to figure out what to do with her eyeliner or what the f*ck in my closet makes me look like I didn't actually eat an entire box of Dove popsicles as a pregame to my pregame.
I also always choose to sacrifice comfort for sex appeal.
I have gone out in heels during a blizzard. I wear teeny-tiny skirts on days my weather app describes as “mostly cloudy with a chance of snow.”
Flurries? Please. Coats are for p*ssies.
When my coworker suggested we should go out this past weekend to the Lower East Side as a social experiment, I agreed.
The added twist? I wouldn't be able to rely on my usual wardrobe of low-cut rompers and itty-bitty dresses to start conversations.
This time, I would bust out the onesie. Or, as most of you know, the least sexy thing residing any of our wardrobes.
My coworker and I weren't playing games. We went for the least sexy onesies we could find, black and red polka-dot ladybugs complete with antennae.
Kylie Jenner might wear skintight fleece onesies, but I wanted this to be as unsexy and unflattering as possible. It was only fair.
Plus, the uni-boob look is so 2016.
Slipping into a onesie was one of my first “aha” moment of 2016. Seriously, why did I ever even bother wearing real people clothes?
Never will I ever squeeze myself into a bodycon dress again. In fact, I've vowed to burn all my leather leggings.
I already had my hypothesis for the night, guessing that wearing the onesie would instigate conversation. Largely from other women.
Men would look at my coworker and me like lepers and, instead, choose to approach the girls showing significantly more skin.
In fact, I was expecting absolutely zero male attention that night apart from the occasional “yo, why are you wearing that?”
F*ck, was I wrong.
We got hit on the moment we left my apartment.
We were virtually 10 feet away from the entrance to my building, waiting for our Uber, when a car pulled up.
“Hey, honey, give me a slice of that watermelon!"
The guy looked no older than 21. I was immediately turned off.
“Are you f*cking blind? We're bugs. Ladybugs!” I said, pointing at the antennae on my hood.
Clearly, I suck at this whole “be kind to strangers” thing.
I didn't get into clubs.
We decided to hit up a club first, choosing one that seemed more like a dive so we'd have no problem getting in.
The moment we tried to get in line, the bouncer stepped in front of us.
He didn't have to say a word. His face was very image of utter disgust, like we were scum of the earth for not wearing something by Herve Leger.
Bet I was warmer than he was, though.
Girls were obsessed with me.
Guys might have been creepy, but girls took it to a whole other level.
No matter where my coworker and I were -- at the bar, dancing, walking from bar to bar -- chicks commended us on our sartorial savviness.
"I love your look!"
"You guys are so brave!"
Then, we selfied. Naturally.
I was basically a celebrity.
The moment we walked in to our first bar of the night — a rock-and-roll-type dive — we were hit with an onslaught of people wanting to take a selfie with us.
"Is this what Kylie Jenner feels like on a daily basis? Does this make me Kylie Jenner?" I thought to myself.
I was flattered.
It was also slightly terrifying to have a person shove a camera your way and stick his or her face between your shoulders.
Halfway through our night, my coworker pointed out a guy with his camera standing outside of a club.
“He's trying to take a video,” she said with disdain. “Or Snapchat us."
I gave him the finger. He laughed.
He also didn't stop filming.
I got hit on. A lot.
Fact: More people grabbed my butt the night I wore a onesie than during nights when I'm practically naked.
I don't know what this says about me. Maybe my ass looks better in a onesie than when it's all out there for everyone to see? I'm not sure, but it felt creepy as f*ck.
With the onesie, all bets were off. We were no longer people, just talking ladybugs with tits.
Hey, PornHub, here's a free idea: onesie sex. Make it happen.
All boundaries vanished.
It normally takes me at least four gin and tonics before I start to dance. With a onesie, I was barely two in before hitting "Magic Mike"-levels of groove.
I knew how ridiculous I looked, but you know what? It hardly mattered.
I could grind on someone without worrying if my skirt would ride up. I could lean over and tie my shoe without having to keep a hand on my boobs to keep them from falling out.
The bug suit also gave me balls.
Toward the end of the night, I started talking to a cute guy outside a pizza joint. Admittedly, neither of us were entirely sober.
“Are you f*cking with me right now?” he exclaimed, pointing at my getup.
Ladies, there's only one answer to that question.
“I don't know, would you like me to?"