When I was fourteen my parents bought me a onesie ski suit. They got it big so I wouldn’t grow out of it. It went out of fashion thirteen years ago, but it still fits. I also still love it. This past weekend I skied in my onesie and our trip leader, a guy in his fifties, did too. As I face my second day of being the only person since 1998 to wear a onesie, I remark to my new found friends,

“Our trip leader is wearing a onesie.”

“Yes, but he is of a different generation.”

I guess pointing out the three-year-old I saw in a onesie isn’t going to help either.

Another friend pipes up,

“You know what they call those things?”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t say, it’s not nice.”

“Tell me.”

“Fart bags.”