The Romper Craze: Why Grown Women Dress Like Toddlers

I spotted my first romper on a grown-up in the summer of 2007. Of course, Go Fug Yourself muse Chloe Sevigny had been sporting the unholy adult-sized playsuit since at least April 2005, but she’ll wear anything. This civilian I saw walking down First Avenue in New York was a slender, pretty teenager wearing a skintight denim onesie. I had a single thought: She looks like a slutty toddler. Then last summer, I went to see a concert at McCarren Pool in Williamsburg, Brooklyn—the epicenter of misguided hipster fashion. Every third woman there was wearing a romper. Not shorts. Not dresses. Rompers. Bohemian types wore loose linen ones with leather sandals; American Apparel devotees stuck to soft cotton jumpsuits; the truly fashion forward (or the truly exhibitionist) wore super short denim versions.

By the name alone, it should be obvious that rompers were not originally intended to make adult women look hot. The “romper suit” first appeared on toddlers early in the 20th century. The idea was that babies needed something roomy to play in, and a onesie with bloomer bottoms seemed just the thing. The romper started popping up in women’s fashion in the ’30s. But it was meant mostly for the beach, a kind of fitted sarong. Now, this garment with its origins in the sandbox is considered sophisticated streetwear for the fashion-forward. What does this mean?

Rompers are the latest in a long line of infantilizing sartorial choices, along with ruffle-overloaded baby doll dresses and vintage T-shirts with cartoons on them. Nobody, it seems, wants to grow up anymore. People in their 20s are experiencing an extended adolescence. Grups dress like a version of themselves from 20 years ago. Moms buy Disney pajamas to match their children’s. It’s all pretty embarrassing, except when it’s disturbing. (This would be the sexy jail-bait variety.)

And there are practical questions to consider: How do they pee in those things? Are wedgies a constant concern? Does a set of finger paints come with purchase?

Then this spring, the unthinkable occurred. I was trying on what I thought was an eye-catching amethyst dress from the Chilean label Zero+Maria Cornejo. When I attempted to climb into it, I realized that there was a rogue piece of fabric in the middle of the skirt. A label? A pad? No! Quelle horreur! I had unknowingly tried on a romper. And even more disturbing, I liked it. I couldn’t justify paying $598 for toddler clothes, but it was clear that I had fully succumbed to romper Stockholm syndrome.

I decided that I would go on the quest for the perfect playsuit, if such a thing exists. A big part of me still feels like they’re not really meant for anyone over 20 years of age or 100 pounds, but I needed to find out definitively.

Methodology

I tested six rompers, evaluating each using the following criteria:

Versatility (10 possible points): If I’m going to shell out for a romper, it needs to be one that can be worn in several different situations. Could it go to the office, or would it only be appropriate at a beach party? Could it go day to night, or was it exclusively casual? A higher score means it can be worn more frequently.

Price (10 possible points): I loved that Zero+Maria Cornejo, but paying close to $600 for a summertime-only piece of clothing when you live in New York is insanity. The better the value, the higher the score.

Non-Absurdity (10 possible points): I’m a reasonably trendy person, but I have very strict limits when it comes to fashion risk-taking. Does this make me look like an adorable French exchange student or like I just escaped from a fetish club? Japanese comic book? Locked ward? The lower the score, the more likely it hangs in Chloe’s closet.