This short version of a jumpsuit, with enough names to confuse even the most seasoned fashion aficionados, is a noted staple of summer and I’ve been bitten by the bug. Rompers – aka the playsuit, short jumper or adult onesie – has settled into my wardrobe void of intent to depart anytime soon. Its familiarity with my style is so evident that they even come with an identity: emblazoned with a print that must be floral in nature, though no distinct color pallet has yet been determined. What came to me, after sporting a black piece riddled with white sunflowers, is proof that a long-term relationship without rough patches has been established. My earliest memory of this outfitting is age 18 when a blue flowery selection from (wretched) Wal-Mart was my go-to for seeing a cheer sister off to prom.
Life was partially going well as I had graduated high school the year before, but was undecided on what to do next, and self-importance seemed to be the center of my personal landscape. Another cheer friend of mine and me were requested to capture “getting ready” snippets of our comrade, something that made me feel useful. The weather was warm, excitement filled the air, and we were respected enough to be the chosen ones for what is grade school’s equivalent of an Oscar’s red carpet. It was a great time.
The romper I wore in summer 2015 was during a family trip to Savannah when my parents and adorable siblings returned home for a visit, after experiencing their first year living in the UAE. On the greenest of grasses, we ate fresh crab boil and watched the kids run themselves silly. Also an amazing time.
For brunch this past Saturday, a similar choice was made to celebrate my blogger friend, Demi’s birthday. We devoured mouthwatering benedicts, which we washed down with Grand Marnier spiked mimosas (because regular mimosas are for basic bitches), but when the end began to near, a catastrophic tantrum needed restraint. I, much like a toddler to their mother after arriving at school for the first time, did not want my friends to leave. A pattern now becomes obvious.
Maybe I subconsciously associate floral rompers – or the garment in general – with creating sound memories with people I like. Or, it could be that rising temperatures call for comfortable looks that are equally flattering on the eyes as they are on the body. Not to mention a petite a frame like mine. It also could be that I’m simply a one-trick-pony who purchases the same thing every season, for the same reasons, but try to add some variety in the tones. Regardless of the cause, it’s clear that my onepiece-infatuation won’t subside. The more pressing question surrounding all of this though, is “What the heck do we call them?”
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