If you were sitting in my living room right now and we were having coffee, it would no doubt occur to you to wonder exactly how long I stay in my pajama pants on an average day. You might even think about asking me directly, because right now it’s like one in the afternoon and to most of the world, my comfy clothes might look a lot like clinical depression. You’re probably a really caring and nurturing soul and I appreciate that, but before you jump on the bandwagon, I can assure you that everything’s all right. I’ve had a shower today. Hell, I’ve even shaved my legs and put on moisturizer. I am not depressed. If I was, my mom (whose name would have been either Frank or Earnest if she were a man) would’ve called me out on it like two seconds after it started, my cats would’ve been really pissed about their dirty litter boxes, and my husband and step-kids would’ve wanted to know where the hell their supper was, and that would’ve been that. So again, I’m not depressed. But admittedly, there are a few things contributing to the plethora of pajama pants in my possession as well as the frequency with which I wear them.
- I keep my house cold enough (even in the summer) that most people need an afghan to be comfortable. (This is not at all inconvenient because I actually MAKE AFGHANS, so I have plenty and I like to share.) Since I’m either on the computer or crocheting, I can’t really cover up; the pajama bottoms mean that I don’t have to.
- I have a cat who barely lands on the nice side of satanic. If I don’t wear pants that he likes to sleep on (fuzzy soft pajama bottoms), he’ll scratch my legs until I reconsider my choice. The scratching is, of course, unintentional. (Yeah.)
- I’m going through a bit of a heavy phase at the moment, brought on by the purchase of Oreos, ice cream, and potato chips every week for the past six months. The pajama bottoms are among the few articles of clothing I own that still fit. The way I see it, folks should be grateful I’m wearing pants at all.
Probably none of these explanations is really good enough for you, and I have to admit that even I occasionally find my attire appalling and problematic. Mostly, these moments occur in the presence of other people. For example, there are times when I have felt truly and unfairly judged by the UPS guy. And we’re not even going to talk about the visiting 12-year-old friends of my step-son. Except to say that those kids really need to work on keeping every thought they have from crossing their faces.
Thankfully, I can at least say that in my house, I am not alone in my preference of pajama bottoms. To illustrate: last night, step-daughter and I returned from an afternoon out with my mom. As she walked through the door, she was tweeting about taking off her makeup, putting on pajamas and binge watching Supernatural. By the time she finished typing, I’d already re-donned my fuzzy ‘jammy pants from earlier in the day, grabbed the Chromebook, and started a cup of coffee. By the time my coffee was done, she had on her own fuzzy pants. We could only smile at one another as we grabbed various bags of unhealthy food and seriously contemplated having frozen pizza for supper for the second night in a row. In the end, we couldn’t be bothered to wait for the oven to preheat and we ate whatever we could find that took even less effort than that. (Parenting goals!)
So, if you were sitting here right now drinking coffee with me, it would probably occur to you that I’m not depressed so much as I’m an obnoxious teenager in a 40-some-year-old squishy body. And I couldn’t really argue with you there. Not at all.