Free You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl by Celia Rivenbark Page B

sleeves. I fretted that she was afraid I’d gained so much weight that I wouldn’t be able to wear anything else, but she swore that wasn’t so.
    Still, a Snuggie just seemed so, I don’t know, mediocre. What was I supposed to do? Wear it as I trudged through the sycamore leaves to the mailbox to see if my Cash 4 Gold check had arrived yet?
    The Snuggie, like the ShamWow, was just such an infomercial hoot. You could combine the two and really have something, I told my m-i-l, a tad ungraciously, now that I think about it.
    “Why not make a Snuggie entirely out of ShamWows, put it on, hose yourself down and then roll around the floor, cleaning as you go.”
    “Try it on,” said my mother-in-law.

    Great. If I opened it, there would be no way I could return it
    “Good idea!” I said, with way more enthusiasm than I felt.
    The box was sealed up with tape so I had to use scissors to get it open. When I finally succeeded, the Snuggie immediately expanded like a life raft, filling my mother-in-law’s den and threatening to knock duh-hubby’s portrait off the wall, along with the collection of candles flickering below.
    Not sure why that irritates my sisters-in-law so much.
    “Wow!” I said. If this thing didn’t work as a cozy coverup, it would make a fabulous drop cloth for, uh, Switzerland.
    Because of its enormousness, it took me a few seconds to locate the Snuggie’s actual sleeves. I haven’t been this kerflum-moxed by an article of clothing since I bought my first thong. Also my last, since you ask.
    While the whole family watched, I put the Snuggie on as best I could and figured I’d just model it quickly and give everybody a good laugh.
    Except that’s not how it went.
    Snuggie had me in its warm embrace. It was like those “rebirth” blankets you hear about people using to recreate the womb experience, except without all the gooey placenta crap.
    No! It was nothing like that. The Snuggie wasn’t some crackpot psychology experiment; it was the real deal. I never wanted to take it off. I would wear my Snuggie everywhere
I went, conducting my daily errands—bank, grocery store, post office, driving by the gym—all while wrapped, nay, swaddled in this marvelous monklike monstrosity.
    I take back every hateful thing I ever said, thought, or wrote about the Snuggie. Because, the truth is, there’s nothing worse than criticizing something you’ve never even tried. (I’m remembering you, deep-fried Oreos.)
    Now that we’re freezing every day, the Snuggie has changed my life, forcing me to feel adrift and helpless for forty minutes every week as I wait for it to finally emerge from the dryer. Lucky dryer.
    So look elsewhere if you want to deride the Snuggie or mock its cheesy advertising campaign. The Snuggie is a gift from God. OK, actually Walgreens, but still.
    Snuggie has sustained me through this coldest of winters. I even bought one for Duh and the Princess so the three of us could sit around the fireplace decked out in our fleecy companions. For our Christmas card this year, we even posed in front of the tree in our matching Snuggies.
    Oh, I know what you’re thinking … why not just put your robe on backwards you idiot? And you shouldn’t call me an idiot by the way. What can I say? It’s just not the same. The Snuggie knows what it’s doing. All hail the Snuggie. And what it’s doing is suffocating you with softness and warmth. Why do you think people wear them to ball games? What? They don’t do that? It’s just something the infomercial says?
    Whatever. The Snuggie has made this wretched cold weather
almost bearable. And for that I will endure your ceaseless jokes about monasteries and cults and all the rest of it.
    I will read your belittling comments while using the adorable book light that came free with the Snuggie, along with the warm sock-booties that also came with.
    Wearing the Snuggie is the only thing that has helped me survive this brutal Donner party–style winter. As a