Not Fit for Public

Thinking back, I have always been especially fond of ‘pajama day’.  I mean really, who doesn’t like pajama day.  I used to think it was just a polish thing that ran in my family.  Though I need to preface that by saying my Grandma wore a house dress, which is now referred to as a muumuu by my Mom.  As much as I love my pajamas, I pray I never leave home in a muumuu, or wear one for that matter.

There is no doubt in my mind I horrified my daughter in her younger years when I would just ‘run off to the store’ in my bunny slippers.  I still have those slippers.  Now frail and thread bear, I only wear them on very special occasions.  I am saving them to wear on my trip into heaven. 

Sometime around 15 years ago, when I was married, one of the neighbors called around 8 pm.  It was wintertime and dark outside.  She asked if we wanted to go out for pie and coffee at the downtown eatery.  We announced that we were in our pj’s, could we have a raincheck.  Well, she said, “oh no, we’ll change into our pajamas too and meet you in the driveway, let’s go”.  And off we went.  That may have been the best pie and coffee I ever had.  I bet that waitress still talks about us goofballs.

What happens when going public in our pajamas, we get a little braver each time, to the point of flat out indecency. It’s one thing to hang out in our pajamas all day doing chores, or lounging on the couch over a bag of popcorn.  It goes to a whole new level outside the confines of your home.

I live in an apartment building.  There are three buildings all together, one of which looks like one long building but it is actually considered two.  I clean these buildings for the owner as part of my rental agreement.  The last time I cleaned was the icing on the cake.  A potential show stopper if the police happen to drive by.

Back a few months ago my friend Frito gave me some completely amazing pajamas.  She had worn them before, but they were a little big so I am now the proud owner of these pajamas, which turn out to be my ‘outfit pajamas’. They really do look like an outfit.  The not so good part about that is how I just wear them way too often.  I developed a comfort zone with these pajamas.  Not only are they fattening when worn too often, but expensive.  I have to wash them every other day to the tune of a buck fifty per wash. They wash up beautifully by the way.

One morning, just recently, I decide to do a gung ho cleaning of the homestead.  Why bother getting dressed, all sweaty, and then take a shower, and get dressed again.  I will clean, get all icky in my pajamas, then shower and get dressed. I waited until most everyone had left for work and began my cleaning, darting in and out of each building with one supply, then the next, then the vacuum.  On and on I went, working away the hours.  I decide to do some outside work as well. I planned to wash the sign and the entrance doors, do some sweeping, etc. 

I learned a big lesson that day.  I cannot break routine.  I am a routine gal.  I went back to my apartment, switching gears to do the outside work; I grabbed my branch trimmers, corn broom, rags, bucket of soapy water, and headed outside to polish the place up.  Ooops, where are my keys?  They are in my apartment!  I was living in the moment of one of my biggest fears. I was locked outside of my apartment. In my outfit pajamas. Holding a corn broom and a branch trimmer.  A bucket of soapy water at my feet.  And to make matters worse no one was home at the apartments to call the owner to let me in.

If you think this is funny, I haven’t even mentioned my hair.  I never met a single person that has morning hair like mine.  This is not a pretty picture folks.  It was really bad when I woke up, so I tried dolling it up with a barrette – tugging and pulling it back.  Due to my lack of vanity, I just went with it.  Who cares right.  I suddenly cared, big time.  All I could picture in my mind was the Publishers Clearinghouse team showing up with my big winnings and here I stand in my pajamas, flipflops and completely insane hair, holding a broom.  Not a pretty photograph to publish in a magazine, ‘the woman from Fenton who won the big sweepstakes’. A pitiful sight to behold.

I sat in a lawn chair belonging to one of my neighbors in awe of my predicament. One and a half hours later someone from my building came home.  I was in like Flynn.