Beauty, Uncensored: The Cult of Snuggie

“What are you watching?” I asked my 4-year-old daughter the other day after noticing that she was paying an unusual amount of attention to the TV.

“It’s a blanket that has sleeves on it,” Punky replied. “It keeps you warm and cozy, Mommy. Can I buy one?”

I stifled a laugh. Apparently, even preschoolers weren’t immune to the charms of the Snuggie, that infamous backwards robe featured in what might be the cheesiest commercial to air on TV since the heady days of The Clapper.

In the commercial, beaming men, women and children sport Snuggies while watching TV at home, roasting marshmallows around a campfire, and rooting for their team in the stands of a football game. It’s no wonder that the Snuggie is the joke of choice right now on the Internet, as Facebook and Twitter users debate its merits and trade links of Snuggie spoofs on YouTube.

And all the publicity is paying off. According to Time Magazine, more than 3 million Snuggies have been sold nationwide. Seeing that, I realized that as your beauty correspondent, this was a trend I needed to get on top of. Or underneath, actually. And so I sent my husband to buy me a Snuggie at Walgreens.

“The guy at the register asked me if there was a Snuggie party,” Hubs announced when he returned home. “He said this was the fourth one he’d sold today. And then he asked me if I wanted to try it on first before I bought it.”

“Did you?” I asked incredulously.

“Hell no,” Hubs said.

“Good,” I replied, tearing into the box. “I want to be the first person to wear it.” Hubs grimaced, but his attitude changed when he spotted the free booklight that was included inside the box.

The next day dawned cold and bright. “This day was made for Snuggie!” I told Hubs excitedly. “I’m wearing mine to lunch!”

Hubs sighed. We were planning to go to Blue Coast Burrito, a new restaurant in West Nashville populated by suburban hipsters (if there is such a thing). “I guess you’ll want your camera,” he said.

We made a somewhat awkward entrance into Blue Coast Burrito. The place was crowded, and I was having trouble getting the kids inside and holding up the hem of my Snuggie at the same time. Also, the sleeves hung well past the tips of my fingers. The one-size-fits-all aspect of my Snuggie was turning out to be problematic.

As we got in line, several people did double takes. A girl in front of me turned, looked me up and down and burst into embarrassed laughter, which she then tried to hide as I fixed her with a supercilious stare. Another woman took a picture of me with her cell phone and texted it to someone, probably TMZ. I realized then that in a town full of people trying to get noticed, I had hit gold.

Once we got our food, all heads turned as I tripped over my hem several times in an effort to get to a table. Somehow, I managed to get my wriggling toddler son into a high chair and buckle his lap belt. People gave me embarrassed looks, probably, I told myself, because they were cursing themselves for not ordering two Snuggies for the price of one after seeing the commercial on TV. I smiled at everyone sympathetically. I was experiencing “total warmth and comfort” in my Snuggie. And they ... were not.

“Could you watch that thing?” Hubs said, snapping me out of my reverie. I looked down to see that one of my Snuggie sleeves was marinating in the tomatillo salsa. “Sorry,” I said sheepishly. For the fifth time, my Snuggie drooped off of one shoulder. Irritated, I pushed it back up.

“The thing won’t stay on,” I said to Hubs.

“Yeah,” Hubs replied. “Maybe there’s a reason why most robes face forward.”

“You may be right,” I admitted, “My ass is pretty cold.” It wasn’t a feeling I liked. I began to wonder if wearing a Snuggie around town was such a good idea after all. I mean, true, it was only $15, and it came with a free book light. But on the other hand, to truly make the thing useful, I needed to have it altered and think about getting some Velcro closures for the back.

If I had it to do again, I would simply buy a microfleece lap blanket at Target, then cut a slit in the middle for my head. Now that’s a wearable blanket.

In the meantime, I now have my costume for Halloween. Perhaps I’ll pair my Snuggie with a light saber and be a Snuggie Jedi. Or maybe I’ll carry a pitcher of Kool-Aid and be a member of the Snuggie Cult. Or I can tie a belt around my waist and be a monk from the order of Snuggie.

And so can my kids. Because I just read that plans are in the works to introduce a child-sized Snuggie this year.

Punky will be thrilled.