I received a most thoughtful, deeply personal, gift this past Christmas from my loving wife, Cupcake. It is a present I would never have thought of, for myself, but one I realized I always wanted, once I had it in my constantly cold hands. The gift was bedroom attire; “laddie lingerie”, I called them. It was a pair of one piece, white and blue fleece pyjamas with a polar bear motif. “Onesies”, was their real name according to Cupcake who is smarter than Wikipedia (just ask her). I noticed immediately that they lacked a trap door in the back which I was most grateful for. The last thing I need is an “airy derrierrey”, I thought. Little did I know that my position on trapdoor drawers was an opinion I would later have reason to rethink. (I wasn’t “wrong”, though; I want to make that clear.)
To get into my marvelous onesies, the garment has a zipper in front that goes down just past where my belly button ends up. Thanks to the tiny entryway versus my ample proportions, in order to don the cozy comfort-wear, I must contort my body, Houdini-esque. It takes about a half an hour and I have to almost dislocate my shoulder but it's definitely worth it; they are so snugly and warm. I was rather frustrated when I inadvertently donned them inside-out one evening and had to repeat the process with the arduous task of having to remove them, too. It took so long to put them on correctly; by the time I had got the pj’s on, it was time to take them off for bed. I slept well, though. Exhaustion will do that.
I don’t keep them on while I sleep at night, because they are actually too warm, in case you were wondering. I tried wearing them through the night only once. I woke up feeling like I had become trapped inside a flannel volcano and had to tear the clingy, perspiration-saturated onesies from hell, off my sweat-puckered body in an overheated panic. I then lay crumpled on the bed in my birthday suit, gasping like a landed carp, from heat prostration. (Sorry, gentle reader for the mental image and, no Doctor Grant, I don’t need a prostrate exam.)
Although, obviously, the onesies weren’t designed to be used in conjunction with a warm duvet and the blast-furnace-like heat Cupcake emits, I thought they would be ideal as long underwear when I am out shoveling. The current strategy of layers of hoodies and sweat pants still leaves a gap at my plumber’s crack, which gets cold enough to make wet flesh stick, like a frozen flagpole in February.
I must say the use of the one-piece garment as a substitute for my two-piece long underwear ensemble was a wonderful improvement to my frosted kidney problem. I shoveled the driveway in exceptionally frigid conditions without the usual accompanying frost line around my equator. I was most pleased, especially when my wife took me for lunch as a way to reward me for my diligence. Once at the restaurant, however, my smugness regarding my comfy underthings evaporated amid the smell of the restaurant bathroom’s overpowering air freshener, as I gazed at the toilet and wondered how many garments I would have to shed, in order to be able to drop my drawers for a direct deposit. I noticed the hooks to hold your stuff off the icky floor were only survived by the holes where the screws that held them used to be. As I peeled off layer after layer to get down to the onesies; my unhappiness and consternation grew by leaps and bounds. Actually, there was a lot of leaping and bounding going on in that infernal cubicle, until eventually my many outer layers were in a heap on the sketchy floor. I figured the onesies would be like an insulating barrier between me and the bathroom-floor-touched clothing.
Finally I was released from the confining flannel and not a moment too soon. For some reason, the urgency to make the deposit tends to grow, the closer to the completion of the docking manoeuvre one gets. By now I was getting concerned, but as I slid the onesies down to reveal the business end of the transaction, I was relieved I was getting close. I knew the situation would be literally touch and go.
Then tragedy struck. In my haste to free myself from my pajamas, the hood, (did I mention my onesies even have a hood?) and shoulders of the garment fell into the toilet.
I am sure the entire restaurant must have heard my immediately painful wail; like the keening of a Klingon for a fallen warrior. Since there was little I could do to undunk my drawers, I simply wrung them out as best I could, after taking care of business, as BTO would say. I had to remove them completely, of course, at this point, as they were drenched in toilet water. This made the clothing soaking up the bathroom floor moisture as the cleaner option. When I was finished dressing, I must have washed my hands for half an hour.
"Are you okay?" Cupcake looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion when she saw me with my soggy Pj's in my hands. "What the heck took you so long? What were you doing in there?"
"I don't want to talk about it," I said quietly, noticing other restaurant patrons had stopped talking and we're watching me with interest. "We need to leave right now."
"Right now?" She asked astonishment written on her skyrocketing eyebrows. "But we're not done our..."
"Right now," I said flatly. "I need a shower more than I need to finish my lunch."
I wonder if I can get anything for the onesies on Kjiji.
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