Friday, April 18, 2014

Pyjamas in Public

A to Z challenge 

Day 16: P is for Pyjamas in Public. Busted!



Pyjamas are comfortable clothing. I have trouble taking mine off even when going out in public. Every time I get caught, I promise to stop wearing jammies in public. I keep breaking that promise.

I first got caught in my pyjamas on the 401 just outside of Toronto. We were on our way to Ottawa. I had not gotten all the Vaseline out of my hair, rubbed into my scalp by my toddler daughter while I lay snoring on the couch. We were late to hit the road. My crappy apartment-sized dryer had not done its job and my clothes were still wet. I threw them into a garbage bag and then into the trunk alongside my daughter’s small suitcase. We were going to drive straight through where a dryer and home cooked meal waited for us. The tow truck driver was very kind not to say anything about my fleecy knee sticking out from my coat while I borrowed his care to call the auto club and renew my membership. He was very kind about the vaseline I left on the headset.

The next time I got caught in my jammies I was out grocery shopping. I was working at home on a deadline project and had been up all night while my daughter had her first sleepover. There was absolutely nothing to eat in the house. Not even a can of beans in the cupboard or some questionable yogurt at the back of the fridge. I was heading right back to the computer so what was the point of changing? I zipped out to the local grocery store without my keys. The landlord was an hour away. I lived close enough to the out patient clinic that the coffee shop staff assumed I was one of the psych patients with a day pass. They even put my melting ice cream in their fridge.

You think I would have learned my lesson after getting arrested in my jimjams. It was supposed to be a trip to the video store to pick up my daughter at the end of her shift and then back to bed. I wasn’t expecting the bored rookie cops to run my license plate and come back with an arrest warrant. They were taken a back when I refused to go to the police station on the grounds I was a middle-aged woman wearing pyjamas and no bra. I was serious when I warned them they would have to shoot me first. The evening ended with the rookie cops inside my home playing with our pets while we waited for their captain to call them back with instructions on how to reboot their computer. It had crashed when they tried to re-enter  my license plate with the correct numbers.


My grandmother was onto to me by then. She knew I wasn’t going to reform. Each birthday and Christmas she started buying me sets of beautiful lounge wear. “Wear some lipstick and comb your hair. No one will notice the rest,” she said. I also took a page from my friend Barb's fashion tips. When she threw on her black mink coat no one noticed what was underneath that glossy fur. My fake fur almost worked as well.

Fashionistas complain about the pajamafication of the nation. Teens might be making a statement wearing theirs in public but for adults this is a sign of our deep weariness. We are unconsciously missing the days when feeling vaguely sick meant Mom kept us at home.  After a day lounging in front of the TV in our PJs, sipping flat ginger ale, we would be miraculously cured.


In a few years, wearing public pyjamas won’t matter at all. As I get older I notice all my clothes are slowly morphing into pajamas with their elasticized waist, loose fitting legs, roomy arms and loose necklines. I’ve already got my wardrobe for the nursing home.