|Plaid robe, check|
striped flannel pants, check
patterned t-shirt, check
fuzzy socks with pom-poms, check
Some take it as a sign of the end times that people now wear pajamas in public. Other people do wear them in public, like the woman I saw in my supermarket, wearing a union suit, hers fuzzy and with feet. (My thought: when you get through walking all over, you are never going to get those feet clean.)
I know someone who once told me she felt, if she went to the supermarket in sweatpants, that she should apologize to the people who have to see her that way. (Ah, no, in my opinion, the appropriate response here would be: “Yeah? What you looking at?”) But I also know someone who considers regular clothes a foreign and uncomfortable irritation in her life. She will, immediately upon arriving home, change into ratty clothes she would never go out in. (Too much work, in my opinion. Now you have to change every time you want to leave the house.)
I don’t go the supermarket in my pajamas. However, I do go in my gym clothes, which are pretty damn close.
I like to hang around in my pajamas in the morning. To have to get up and jump into clothes – and out the door, like the jogger I saw this morning huffing and puffing in the cold and the dark – is just wrong.
And while I realize you can buy fancy pajamas, all matchy-matchy, made of silk and whatnot, I like my motley collection of pajama pants and t-shirts. (And I don’t get “sexy” pajamas, or lingerie. How does dressing like a baby doll make you feel sexy and not, say, stupid?)
When I get up, I “layer” too, adding a robe, usually, my husband’s tartan-plaid one, and fuzzy slippers.
And life is good.