Valentine’s Day is coming to a close and I am at home alone wearing my ugly pajamas. The pajamas are ugly enough that, when we were married, my ex-husband asked me to please never wear them again. This plea came from a man who tolerated legs shaved only to mid-calf because I was too lazy to shave but still wanted to wear capri pants to the gym. Well, I think he tolerated it. He never said anything, but, then again, we are no longer married.
Either way, I lie when I use the word pajamas. When I think of pajamas, I think of a set, of a top and bottom that one puts on to lounge and eventually sleep. I am actually wearing a threadbare nightgown with stripes and hearts and little red polka dots and these amazing ruffles around the collar. I don’t know from whence the nightgown came. Perhaps it was my grandmother’s. Perhaps it was a Good Will cast away. I don’t really know. It does not matter. With my scraggly pony tail and mismatched socks, I am only missing a dressing cap and, perhaps, some spectacles.