Dear Pajamas Worn as Clothes,
I blame it on Hugh Hefner. Really, PJ, it’s not your fault. I’m not here to “out” you. That’s been done. First, by Hefner, thirty years ago; And most recently, by Rihanna. That’s quite the upgrade, jammies, so this concerned letter aside, here’s one up-top!
I get you, PJ Worn as Clothes. If I had been kept underneath bed pillows for years, only to suddenly have someone want to bring me out into the world in all my crumpled, comfy glory, I wouldn’t object either. I understand what you must be feeling. Finally, your wrinkles are saying, there’s someone who appreciates me for what I am, and isn’t afraid to be seen with me in public! I get it. You’ve got a case of the Ben-Affleck’s, circa those shrouded Bennifer years.
But Jammies, we already do appreciate you! For exactly what your are! You are a clean, cool embrace after a warm bath, the warm hug we need on hungover Saturday mornings (and ok, the whole day sometimes), and the welcome signal that we are done for the day, that we are not going anywhere, not even when a friend texts us to say that Michael Fassbender’s twin has sidled up to the bar next to her and is propositioning a threesome. Sorry, already in my pajamas, is and will always be the greatest excuse we never feel guilty for using. And sometimes, sure, we’ve opted to bring our iPhones into this partnership, but that’s only because you make such a delightfully safe pouch for them while we sleep. Is that what this is about? You’re not still mad about that are you?
Take it from me, pajamas. You don’t need to be paraded on a red carpet in front of thousands of hundred watt bulbs to remind people how wonderfully perfect you are. Dorothy said it best. The greatest splash you’ll ever make is right where you’ve always been: at home.
Now, your cousin, Birthday Suit, is another story. Can I get his address?
Stay flannel, pajamas.