You know how you always think of the smarty-pants response to some argument 10 minutes to 10 years after you lost the argument? We hate when that happens....
It was early on a lovely summer evening and I wanted to sit outside and enjoy a refreshing beverage. I constructed said beverage and prepared to sally forth.
“You can’t go out there like that,” I was told.
“You’re wearing pajamas. People will see you. People I know. I will lose face and have to leave town and I don’t want to.”
I have only recently discovered the joy that pajamas can bring. I am speaking specifically of pajama bottoms here, not tops. Tops are goofy and only old men wear them. I am hardly, at 56, old. 56 is the new 44 and, if I recall correctly, 44 is the new 35. You’d have to be insane, or a teen, to think that 35 was old.
For most of my life I have worn jeans - winter, spring, summer or fall. In summer, they can be a smidge uncomfy on hot days. I am not allowed to wear shorts because my legs are white and spindly. The sun’s glare rebounds off them and blinds passers-by. I have nightmares about drivers involved in a chain of fender benders, clapping one hand over their eyes and pointing an accusing finger with the other.
A year or so ago, Son #2 started wearing pajama bottoms pretty much everywhere. I shrugged. Kids. Heck, I once wore barrel-sized bell bottoms and a Nehru jacket. Not together though. Pretty sure.
Anyway, when I took him shopping one day for more, I decided to pick up a pair or two for myself. I was pleasantly surprised to see that they cost less than $15. In fact, I have since purchased some very spiffy ones, in designer plaids, stripes and checks, for less than 10 bucks!
They are light and comfy. They have elastic waists which come in very handy when dinnertime rolls around. And get this:
They have pockets now! I’m fairly certain that way back in the 50s and early 60s, when I last wore them, they were pocket-less.
So, on the one hand, we have comfort, stylish designer plaids, stripes and checks and pockets. And on the other, we have someone sniffing with disapproval.
Well, the sniffing won that day.
But only because I forgot about Hugh Hefner.
Hef practically spent his entire life in pajamas! For all I know he still does. And he’s a millionaire and his magazine has articles in it about stylishness! Probably.
How can wearing jammies be a fashion faux pas if Hef wears them? I chuckled to myself, anticipating the next PJ discussion and my new trump card.
As I thought about Hefner, I came to realize that we had lots more in common than sartorial resplendency:
He drinks Pepsi and I drink Pepsi sometimes.
He has a magazine empire and I have written stuff for magazines.
He has slept with hundreds, maybe thousands of women. I have kissed more than a dozen. (If we count aunts.)
In fact, it would not surprise me one iota if ole Hef put some fishies in one of his swimming pools and wet a line now and then.
It’s like we were twins, separated at birth!
A week or so ago, sporting a new, classy, grey/white/yellow-striped pair with a button-fly front, I headed outside.
“Hugh Hefner wears them all the time!” I crowed triumphantly.
“He wears tops too. He’s an old man.”
Any day now, I’m gonna come up with a smarty-pants rejoinder to that one.