Anna: Life in Pajamas

 

 
Who wears pajamas all day?
 
Infants.  People in prison.  The infirm.  The insane.  Writers.  Mothers.  You can call ‘em yoga pants, girlfriend, but you know you slept in ‘em.
 
Life in pajamas, while appealing in concept, can be quite dangerous.  To your health.  To your appearance.  To your standard of what makes an attractive outfit.  You know this because you have spent so much time in your pajamas that you have lost the ability to select suitable attire for visits to The Outside.  Juicy sweatpants and a fleece without baby boot or peanut butter on it, is not an “upscale casual” ensemble. 
 
When you first make a slovenly commitment to your bedclothes, it seems funny.  Amusing.  On the phone you brag to a friend, “It’s four o’clock and I’m still in my pajamas,” and the friend laughs and says something cute like, “must be nice.” 
 
A
fter a while it occurs to you that if you’re still in your pajamas there’s no point in putting on deodorant.  You are, after all, in your pajamas.  Who cares?  The UPS guy?  Because you have a rabid watchdog, the UPS guy never even rings the bell anymore.  He leaves your deliveries between the bushes and the trash can.
 
And with pit stench is no longer driving you to the powder room it is all too easy to forget about brushing your hair. Or teeth. 
 
Yes, teeth.  Nasty. 
 
When you drink as much coffee as a writer and mother does, there is never an ideal time to brush your pearly whites.  Which are now kind of khaki.  Coffee and toothpaste are two great tastes that do NOT taste great together.  So, you put off the tooth-brushing. 
 
Around six o’clock, you notice your teeth have knitted themselves little cozies of filth.  But it’s six o’clock.  Cocktail hour.  And the only thing worse than toothpaste with coffee is toothpaste with gin. But, you discover, if you gargle gin and tonic, the tiny scrubbing bubbles of the tonic and the citrus snap of the lime leave your mouth feeling as fresh as a sit-down with the dental hygienist. 
 
So, there you are.  Stinky.  Sweaty.  Reeking of coffee and gin.  It’s eight o’clock now.  Hungry?  Hells, yeah.  But going out at this point would take so much effort.  So you order in. 
 
Does the delivery man care what you look, smell, or taste like?  If, he does look a tad concerned when he arrives, you just move fast and tip well and he has almost no time in which to judge you. 
 
That you can see. 
 
What he does in the privacy of his Tercel is his business. 
 
After you watch a bad movie – you were too tired to bother looking for a good one – you shove the remains of your take-out into the fridge and grab a paper towel.  (If you’re feeling motivated, you moisten it.) You wipe your mouth and hands.
 
You are clean and ready for bed. 
 
Scuffing your way to the boudoir you consider changing into pajamas.  But then remember you are already in them.  Feeling very satisfied with your ability to plan ahead, you fall into bed and await the magic of morning.