Pajama Party

There has been a passing in my life. It has been a slow, deliberate series of events that has led me to believe that this could be it. A true sign that there is no turning back. My youth is now only a fantasy but I am okay with my future. I have entered into the flannel zone. Those extra large, snuggly, neck to ankle jammies that make you sleep like a bunny and make you realize that sex appeal has gone the way of the phonograph (not forgotten exactly but it has to be brought out from its special hiding space).

Growing up, I experienced the usual sleeping choice of the average 1960’s girl: Princess pajamas that were light, airy and very pink; feety pajamas that my mom always made me wear and I hated because they made you feel very claustrophobic and a real pain when you had to go to the bathroom; and assorted cute and pastel, girly-girl nighties. Somewhere in my teens I deviated and went the route of sleeping in sweat pants and football jerseys of my high-school boy friend (if only the coach knew that his players were donating their jerseys for such a cause). I carefully tucked the stretchy part of the pant under my feet and scuttled about the house creating the perfect dusting apparatus – very practical day (and night) wear. If I think back those might have been some of the best sleep nights I had until now because what came in-between might fall into the “it seemed like a good idea at the time” category.

College came and my sleeping apparel became a bit more sophisticated. When I started reading Cosmopolitan magazine and was informed that one (such as I thought I was) who was a hip-happening college co-ed was supposed to be sleeping in slippery satin articles that came with interesting names such as “teddy”, “camisole” and ”negligee” that barely covered the essentials, it was a revelation of sorts. These fancy jams made it difficult to be warm without several layers of down blankets and they didn’t stretch, bad news in the comfort area. It took me a couple years to understand the paragraph in that article that I forgot to read, that the sleeping part was optional.

Things picked up after college when I finished all magazine columns (always reading to the end) and understood at the PhD level the psyche of the average male. The learning curve was enhanced by Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition and Victoria Secret and the imagination those magazines inferred and permitted the unsuspecting to experience. The flannel producers should have protested then and there, they should have emphasized their fine product and the many, many benefits one could have with the homespun cotton feel – but I don’t know if I was ready to listen even if they had.

All systems were a “go” with my wedding dowry and its wedding night essentials in place. I remember it well; it was dazzling, memorable and a very long time ago. After 15 years together with my stud-muffin, I must admit things have, well, changed a bit on my sleeping attire front. Gone are the spaghetti strapped short silk nighties in basic black; packed away are the enticing, slinky little numbers that could ignite a fire of passion in moments and in their places have arrived the more, hmmm, mature counterparts. I now use the adage “it may take a little more work but its what is in the inside that matters” (and it seems to be working, shhhhh!).

No shoulder drafts, room to stretch out, comfort, warmth and a good nights sleep; albeit the red and black tartan flannel does leave a lot to be desired in the looks department these PJ’s just kinda make sense now in my life and it would be hard to go back. “They” say that clothes make the person. I wonder what “they” would say that pajamas do?

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life. Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-