You can look up above and see how much money I spend on that little area of my life.
It's something I actually have some guilt over, honestly. I moved most of my clothes to Brett's apartment, but when I was packing up PJs he just stood beside me shaking his head. "No, no, no. Not those. I promise I will buy you all new pajamas in Pittsburgh. Ones without penguins on them. You keep these here, ok?" So I have a chest full of flannel pajamas with polar bears, penguins, and snowflakes. Which doesn't do me very good in CALIFORNIA, BUT THANKS BRETT. YOU ACTUALLY GET SNOW WHERE YOU ARE. I get his point though, and my argument was pretty weak. Most of these little gems don't really fit me anymore and Brett was right about the fact that all of my sets were animal related. When I triumphantly found a pair with coffee cups on them, (like that is a more adult option than polar bears,) He just stared me down in disbelief as I argued their sophistication. I think I yelled something like "BABIES DON'T DRINK COFFEE. THESE WERE MADE FOR ADULTS, CLEARLY."
Tonight I was looking in the mirror and realized that I hadn't actually brushed my hair in 3 days and I had bags under my eyes the size of suitcases. I also had not worked out in an embarrassingly long time and the waist band on my favorite mint green pajamas was getting a little tight. I realized I had to stop counting my weekly walk to the grocery store as exercise, (I carry wine bottles home! Heavy ones!) and get serious. A horrible thought ran through my head: was I letting myself go? And an answer immediately followed: Yes, idiot. You change from one pair of pajamas to a different pair at night! You ate chips and carrots for dinner! YOU COUNT A 3 BLOCK WALK WITH WINE BOTTLES AS EXERCISE.
So, the answer was pretty clear.
I took my pajamas off. I put on dusty work out clothes. I did yoga for an hour and then took a long hot shower, actually paying attention this time to the routine of it instead of lathering up while muttering under my breath and hopping out because I am afraid the ten seconds I was in there someone broke in to the house. I did a face mask after, a mint one that made me really want gum. I did this while naked, so now I was covered in goop and could not put a shirt on. So, I did the most natural thing. I hopped around in my room, rolling my neck from side to side and massaging my arms and legs. I thought it would make me feel sexy, but you can just read that sentence again and see NOTHING SEXY ABOUT IT. Who cares, I was trying. So after hopping around a bit, rubbing lotion in all over, I looked longingly towards my pajama drawer.
Should I go for the one sexy nightgown I keep here? The wedding gift still hanging in the Nordstrom bag on my bike handles? Or should I succumb to the call of the polar bears and fluffy socks?
It's a cold night.
Slipping on my too-short pajamas I smiled hugely as they worked their faded flannel magic on my soul. I was clean, smooth, hairless and tight-skinned. In my opinion my one yoga work-out made me lose that last 5 pounds I've been carrying. (I looked in the mirror after, convinced I was instantly skinner.) And now, I was wearing what I think of as clothing love wrapped all around this pretty little package.
So, I was sexy. I felt sexy.
Polar bears are just dead sexy. Everyone knows that.