Prior to this exact moment, have I worn a jumpsuit? No. In the name of Gloria Gaynor, no no no.
And yet, I seek them out. I add them to my style boards and mentally pack them for events. Like when I’m on the back of a motor bike in Florence or making out with a guy who kinda looked like Ray Liotta if you squint your eyes a little in Vegas.
I bit the bullet and ordered one; ignoring that maybe they weren’t practical or flattering for plus size women. It arrived and I scoffed opening the box, unrolling the slinky fabric and pulling it up over my body like a wrestling singlet.
“This is ridiculous,” I thought. “It will probably give me a camel toe.”
I padded over to the mirror and sighed. I was billowy and light and so very sexy. It hid my lumps and flattered my waist and my boobs perfectly. I was part Sharon Stone in Casino and part Rachel McAdams in whatever movie has her glossy lipped and wandering about a farmer’s market or cliche small town festival.
And to answer the big question, how hard is it to go to the bathroom while wearing it? I’ll answer your question with a question. Ever pull down shapewear to pee? It’s infinity percent easier than that.
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