I’m a big fan of pajamas.
Besides the fact that they are so comfortable, with those swell elastic waistbands, I think I have come to associate being in my jammies with leisure. I don’t actually get to lounge around much, but I cling to the illusion by staying in my pjs more than the average matron. As I stood in the street this week in my pajamas and robe, having a conversation with a neighbor, I began to realize that too many people have seen me in my bedclothes.
Please don’t be horrified. My jammies are G-rated and so are my excuses. I have no tendencies toward exhibitionism, nor have I ever had the gene pool to model lingerie. It’s simply that I am not a morning person and, left to my own devices, I tend to shuffle around for hours in a state of befuddled dishabille. I do, however, manage to accomplish a host of chores before I struggle back upstairs to make myself textbook presentable. Often it is noon by then.
I can hear you early risers gasping. For you, I have no suitable excuses. You just have to accept that not everyone wakes up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Let me quickly restate that while I do not hop into real clothes, my pajamas are more than modest and very practical. My bathrobes are long and thick. I’ve seen women washing cars and playing tennis in considerably less. But it was still mildly sobering when I thought about how many of my neighbors, children’s friends and acquaintances have encountered me thus.
I’d like to shoot for a reputation as being a rich eccentric. The truth is, we are a family of night owls who, given any choice at all, sleep late. If I made everyone wait until I managed to get showered, dressed, coifed and my contact lenses in, my children would have no playtime at all. So, I do as the great hostesses of Europe did and receive in my boudoir clothes. Mine, however, have no feather boas, chiffon, spangles or lace. Mine don’t flow, they schlep, and can be tossed into the washing machine after sticky kids, bacon grease and slobbery dogs fill my mornings.
It has occurred to me that this self-indulgence will have to stop soon. I don’t want to embarrass teenagers unnecessarily and I realize that on somebody’s mom, even multiple layers of flannel and fleece can be, well, mortifying. Meanwhile, I watch “Golden Girls” reruns and sigh over their gorgeous sleepwear. I remind myself that the beautiful peignoirs and handsome matching cashmere and silk pajamas and robes this cast wears could only survive when you live with three other women.
One good muddy dog paw and that silk would be trashed, and I’ve heard you cannot get strawberry jam out of cashmere.
Jean Gillette is a freelance writer who sticks with her own style of making the most of mornings. Contact her at [email protected].
