First off, I spell it “pyjamas”. This post came about as a result of Spell Check. I was sending an e-mail, explaining that I am in fact still in my pyjamas, and got the red underline. In fact, it’s appeared as I’m typing this. So, because I’m an obsessive freak, I googled it. Two spellings. So, leave me alone, Spell Check.
I’m a huge fan. I have multiple pyjamas, cozy flannels, classy silks, cool cottons. Pyjamas are the one garment, in my opinion, that should NOT “fit”. They should be a size or two too big. As a card-carrying grownup, I have to wear clothes that fit me ALL DAY. When I get home, I want pure comfort. I don’t want too-tight waistbands that leave marks around my middle.
One of my beefs with pyjamas is that because I prefer natural fibres, they tend to shrink up in the wash a little, and the legs invariably become too short. That’s why God made socks. Unlike my daytime obsession with pants that are long enough though, I really don’t care when I’m in my pyjamas. Pyjamas are made for not-caring.
That’s not to say that I care little enough to wear them in public. No, although here in Peterborough, they seem to be de rigeur for WalMart wear, I do insist on getting dressed in Big Kid clothes to leave the house. I don’t object so much when I see students out in their flannel bottoms, but I draw the line at people old enough to have Serious Jobs. Really, did you just give up? Or get up? Even so, brush your teeth, comb your hair and put on real pants. And no, sweats don’t count. Real pants. Pyjamas are for at home, sweats are for the gym or for yardwork. All other social interaction requires pants. Or a skirt, whatever, boys and girls.
I have pyjamas that are strictly for nights alone. The sex-appeal factor of red flannels with reindeer is sub-zero. I have much nicer nightwear for “company”, but it’s not as comfortable, and I don’t really consider it “pyjamas”.
Years ago, my then-husband hunted down a pair of footy-pyjamas for me. He even wisely went to Tall Girl for them. Sadly, they still weren’t really long enough, and that strain from crotch-to-shoulder really wasn’t comfortable. This was truly sad, because as a kid, I loved them. Although apparently, there’s nothing more fun than snapping your sister’s drop-seat. Who knew?
I really wish I could get a pair of footies that fit me. Although I’d probably just give up all hope and wind up living under a bridge drinking Aqua-Velva, and someone would have to surgically remove me from them, at some point.
PS – Friend Naomi found me this site – I WANT THESE PYJAMAS!!! 6’1″, size 8.