The first world problem of being terrified by the thought of wearing a jumpsuit was very real to me. Camel toes belong exclusively on the feet of camels, I’ve always said, not fixed 6.5 inches south of one’s belly button — this is a rough estimate based on a distant memory of the size of a foot long sub from Subway cut in half, as well as a text to my husband asking him to ballpark it for me.

The thought of the fabric not so subtly creeping inch by inch up my hind-quarters with every step and the inability to pull my shirt down strategically to hide those wee dimples that have taken up residence on my thighs was enough to keep me clothed in dresses or separates all of these years. But one day all of that changed. I was in Club Monaco when I happened upon what would become my conversion jumpsuit. It was black and it fit me good.

The first time I wore it I remember frantically patting down the inseam while standing in the bathroom stall searching for that convenient tear-away-pant technology that was a hallmark of my high school attire in the late 90s. Nothing! I was trapped. Having had two children I know a couple things to be true: one, when jumping rope I can safely jump 26 times after which I begin a solo game of  Russian roulette each rep bringing me closer to an accident. The other thing I know to be true is if I have to go, I have to go. I’ve got about 30-60 seconds before I’m in unfortunate incident territory. In those critical seconds, if one is wearing a jumpsuit, success depends on the seamless execution of the following: unzip the zipper – this needs no explanation, it isn’t easy; pull the top down by inching that fabric ever so carefully down your body so as to not get the arms in the toilet; be mindful of the puddling of the pants on the floor and the heightened risk of getting something on the fabric. You likely won’t get it right your first time so make sure you choose a clean stall. Your primary objective, like mine, will be successfully gaining access to the toilet and everything else will go by the wayside.

But success is possible with a little practice, folks. In fact, this is what success looks like with 5 seconds to spare (not to brag or anything).

I’m officially over my fear of jumpsuits! I own at least five now. If I can do it, anyone can.

In a society always looking at ‘what’s next’ you might be wondering what other fashion fears consume me. The obvious answer to that question is white garments — all of them.

Next level bravery: white pants!

Ultimate level of bravery: white booty shorts, but more specifically, working out in white booty shorts (so many things can go horribly wrong)!

To put things into perspective regarding where I sit on the ‘white garment bravery’ continuum, I can’t even wear a white shirt for fear of getting coffee, blue pen or my lunch on it. The headache of having to pre-acknowledge it each time I encounter a new person so they don’t feel the need to bring it to my attention does not appeal to me. Or worse, they notice it, they don’t tell me and then build their own narrative around how the brown stuff got on my shirt. Again, I have two kids, it could be anything.

At this point in time I choose to rest on my laurels. They say a little bit of fear is heathy but panic is deadly. In a bid stay alive I’ll leave the white bottoms to the professionals.

Stay great!

Kate