I own, at last count, six jumpsuits, three rompers, five leotards, two pairs of overalls, and what can only be described as a slutty snap-crotch henley. I love a one-piece! They’re so easy to put on! They minimize bumps and lines and underwear choices, and they provide an instant Outfit. (I should also mention, since this is the most perennially heated topic at Racked dot com, that I am thong-agnostic.)
The one thing they do not make easier? Going to the bathroom. Which is something I do with a frequency I have, at times, considered medically alarming, but is really just the body’s natural response to being small and routinely flooded with Peach-Pear La Croix and Miller High Life. I’m constantly looking for the nearest exit, calculating subway distance versus bladder fullness, sweet-talking my way into the bathrooms of bars and hotels I have no intention of ever patronizing. I would estimate that I spend a solid 8 percent of my waking hours figuring out when and where I am next going to pee.
And so my love for a garment that is essentially a personal seawall requires some compromise. I’ve had to master the awkward-but-effective push-aside method while wearing a bodysuit, or else get comfortable with stripping down almost entirely in my place of employment. (The very business, coincidentally, that is publishing this wildly TMI screed.) I’ve had to calculate unbuttoning times down to the millisecond, and I’ve felt the singular helplessness that is realizing the strap of your overalls has dangled into the (hopefully unused, if there’s any such thing as justice) toilet.
But I put up with these indignities because my jumpsuits are worth it. I don’t want to kowtow to the limitations of my earthly vessel; I want to festoon it however I see fit. We humans, I have heard, contain multitudes, and my particular multitudes are that I love a backless one-piece and that I also have to pee, right now, immediately. —Alanna Okun, senior editor