Photo by Dasha Bakani on Unsplash
Jumpsuits were originally invented for those who dared to be different, for those who jumped out of planes that were not burning. They became ‘fashionable’ for women when designer Elsa Schiaparelli “created an easy-on, easy-off air-raid suit, complete with matching gas mask, velvet turban and flask” during WWII.
Wow. I mean, if I have to don a siren suit during wartime, as women and children did when huddled in an air-raid shelter, I want to look good, you know? After all, when the men find my broken body among the building rubble, I want to hear, “Do you think that jumpsuit would fit my wife?”
“Yes, I think so, but first we need to get the blood out. Yuck.”
“You’re right. Soaking it is the key, but I can’t remember, do we use cold or hot water?”
“Cold. I think. No, hot, no…”
“Hot, definitely hot. When did cold water get anything out?”
“You fools! Cold water and soap. Now help me get this gorgeous jumpsuit off of this poor woman…”
Jumpsuits, then for decades afterwards, were carefully folded and put away in trunks or possibly repurposed into just regular shirts and pants like God intended them to be. But then rock stars made the jumpsuit fashionable again. Elvis, Cher, and Ziggy Stardust turned these large amounts of fabric into exciting costumes. And because normal folks like to emulate their idols, everyday people started wearing jumpsuits.
Yet somewhere along the onesies road, prisoners started wearing these easy-on, easy-off contraptions. While the outside world was doing cartwheels over these avant-garde pieces, criminals were sliding into black and white striped ‘jailhouse rocks’ jumpsuits which ironically mimicked the bars they were locked behind.
Furthermore, these jumpsuits were considered utilitarian and de-individualizing like school uniforms. They were also made to stand-out so that if a prisoner escapes from, say, Alcatraz, which I saw Clint Eastwood do, they would be readily recognized by the public.
There are two times I’ve seen a prisoner in a jumpsuit. The first time was when I was a budding archaeologist. We were on a Native American reservation picking up work-release prisoners (prisoners who get to leave for the day to do work sans jumpsuit) before heading to the job site. On this particular day, as we waited for the plain-clothed prisoners to hop into the back of our trucks, I watched a man in a bright orange suit wash a police car.
At the time I thought, man, that’s gotta sting, but now, I realize he was probably glad to get out, get some fresh air, and do something that’s enjoyable. I was too far away to hear if they gave him some jams to listen to, but I think most people like washing cars. If we didn’t, we’d never have charity car washes.
The other time I was getting a medical checkup for my work permit in Central Thailand. (Even though I could get my Thai citizenship, the Thai government recognizes me as an American, and wonders why I’d want dual citizenship.) The medical examination involved being cleared of third stage syphilis (I guess the first two stages are okay), elephantiasis, and leprosy, which I didn’t think I had.
Instead of going to a nice private hospital where the sick people are out of sight, where they have coffee shops and baby grand pianos in the lobby, I went to the very public hospital because it was closer to home and I was too cheap to pay for a taxi. I have since been taking taxis.
Before the blood work, I had to pee in a cup, and as I walked to the toilets through an alarming number of geriatrics in wheelchairs, I was shocked to see a prisoner in a blue jumpsuit, completely covered in tattoos, wearing wrist and ankle shackles. The tall collar around his neck had a heavy chain that continued to his wrists shackles and down to his feet. My eyes dropped, but not slow enough to notice his police escort leaning against the wall, scrolling on his phone.
After my frustrating experience overflowing the cup, coupled with the realization that I’d have to walk back through the maze of wheelchairs with a warm cup of urine in my hand, I fished out a handkerchief from my purse and covered the container as best as I could. As if nobody knew what I was holding! Oh, this? It’s just a latte. I wanted to take a picture (of the prisoner in heavy chains, not my piss), damn you Instagram, but didn’t want to try on the blue jumpsuit myself, so I averted my eyes again and made the journey back to the bustling urine and blood counters.
To recap, jumpsuits are for work (astronauts, race car drivers), Halloween or performance art (same thing), and further punishment for prisoners. Why anyone outside of these specific spheres would want to wear them is beyond me.
By the way, does this jumpsuit make me look fat?
Lani V. Cox is a Taurus with a Virgo rising and Libra moon. She was born, according to the Mayan calendar, on the day known as blue crystal monkey. She currently lives in her mother’s birth country, Thailand, and you can find her at lanivcox.com.