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Dear Fashion,

I know what's going on. You must really hate me.

Don't play dumb. You know what I'm talking about: the bodysuit. Really, Fashion: the bodysuit? This is what you're into these days? This is your so-called latest thing? Please - at least be original.

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You did this to me in the nineties, and I fell for it. There you were, gently suggesting that I layer a black one with a lumberjack shirt and Doc Martens; I see now that you are a sadist. And, yes, I admit my part; I alone wore the bodysuit with jeans as if to purposely resemble a giant burnt sausage. I thought you'd approve, and I longed for Donna Karan and Alaia. You sold me the fantasy of the "streamlined silhouette" and I bought it. Lies. All lies.

We were so much younger then. I found out from The Observer: "It was the scourge of women's wardrobes in the 1980s: Now 'the body' is back to torment a new generation too young to remember the downsides of wearing it." (Oh, why am I so stupid? Why am I such a dedicated follower of you?) I read that sales of bodysuits had increased faster than any other product by the luxury bodywear label Wolford. Designers like MaxMara and Chloe love "bodies" for their spring/summer collections, and Lanvin is pairing them with Crayola-coloured flowing skirts. The more I learned, the more my eyes welled up: I developed an infection just thinking about those metallic crotch snaps ("crotch snaps!" - a phrase I hadn't required for two decades, you jerk!).

Oh, Fashion, I remember it all: the unflattering back rolls, the leg hole poking up from above the waistline. I still shudder at the memory of the time those godforsaken snaps failed at their one task, during a seminar on Jurgen Habermas - I have to stop now. What I'll say is simple: Dress it up all you like, Fashion, but it's an adult onesie. And that's not love.

You know it didn't end well the first time - by 2000, Goodwill had to open hangars to contain all those cast-off bodysuits - so what got into you? Did you see Black Swan and think: Oh, yeah, it worked on a four-foot-tall bird-boned actress who survived on hot water for a year - I gotta get with that. Maybe it was zumba, or So You Think You Can Dance. I know what you'll say: It's Lady Gaga's fault! Please.

Shall I pair my bodysuit with a meat dress and roll to work in a giant plastic egg? This is the real world, Fashion. There are consequences.

Maybe it's not just me; maybe, as others have mentioned, you hate all women. After all, the bodysuit was invented over 150 years ago by a French man, Jules Leotard, who brought the world the

flying trapeze act, which, I grant you, is maybe the one place a bodysuit is imperative. Yet you appear to genuinely believe

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that sweat clothes outside the gym are okay

(don't think I didn't notice that yoga-pants-at-the-mall thing).

Hear me now, Fashion: A bodysuit is not meant to be worn outside of a room with large mirrors and someone yelling: "Harder! Harder! More! More!" Of course, you like that, don't you, fashion?

You like it rough. You like it mean.

What am I talking about? I'm talking about stirrup pants. And corduroy Tiny Tim knickers. All the things you've done to me over the years. Uggs. Bill Cosby sweaters. That summer of baggy overalls with white plastic beach sandals. What I've endured!

The sad part is I've always defended you. There are those who say: Fashion is shallow. A tyrant. Fashion is obsessed with the surface. Fashion is just a gross consumer fallacy that enslaves women to impossible ideals. No! I've retorted. Fashion's more than that!

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Fashion encourages self-expression. Fashion is beauty, and play.

As costume historian James Laver wrote, "clothes are inevitable. They are nothing less than the furniture of the mind made visible."

And it feels good. Oh lord, Fashion can feel good. But wait, what am I talking about? You don't care what I think.

You told me diaper pants were flattering. And I believed you.

My point is: Women don't want to be wedged into a garment that won't let them urinate. We have hips and curves that are no friend of Lycra. We are not Usain Bolt or a five-year-old at gymnastics class.

I, like most of us, will never be the dancer you seem to require. I'm more of a lurcher. What will you do for the lurchers this season, Fashion? When will you show some love to the normal-bodied, the urinating, the real women?

I know what you'll say: You'll distract me with the poncho, claiming it's the next new old thing. Oh, Fashion: One of us is going to have to change.

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