It’s weird shit out there these days.
Now that I’ve gotten the irritatingly obvious opener out, let’s get down to brass tacks.
It’s only Day Two of my self-isolation, and I’ve devolved to a robe only.
I’ve never really worn pajamas, per se. As one of the revered and always popular “husky”-sized clothing models of the 80s, I favored the nightshirt. I had a small wardrobe of them. I could dress them up, with a magnetic belt (which really happened), or down, with basketball socks. I had warmer-weather selections as well as summer-wear. My mom and I could trade, which effectively doubled my choices.
God, I wish I had a nightshirt right now.
But I don’t.
What I do have, what I’ve come to really adore at this stage of adulthood, is a small selection of robes. It started with a silky knee-length dotted number, a present from my youngest sister. She also got my other sister one, and boom, we were the Robe Sisters, an act that never took off.
The robe was a nice lil’ mix of trendy and timeless, felt great, and was instantly relegated to the back of my closet, where it stayed for about three to four years, until I met my robe-worshiping husband. He got me a really nice robe the first Christmas we were married. It was NAUTICA, for heaven’s sake.*
*and obviously no longer made, so no link.
I had ARRIVED.
Suddenly, I had a robe for all seasons. The soft, luxurious, heavenly, obviously-navy Nautica blankety wrap for colder mornings, and the swishy-thin, dotty sasspot to cover (barely, wink) summertime. I started to wear them on all mornings when I didn’t instantly have to leave the house. I worked from home a lot then – my job was remote, involved a lot of writing, and was easily the worst time of my short-lived solar career. Plus, the robes brought me a very small measure of comfort, as did whiskey.
I ditched the whiskey the next year, but the robes stayed. Unfortunately, I got a fantastic job that consumed most of my waking and sleeping thoughts, and also required me to be on-site a lot, wearing pants. My robe days moved to Sunday mornings only, which made them feel like more of a treat.
Fast-forward to 2020 (but not through it, as much as we will it so), and Corona hit. I was relatively lucky to be able to work through the rest of the week last week, and immediately trucked it to my son’s house afterward in fear of a mandatory shutdown because hell, shit was changing by the HOUR, man. As a result, my true stay-at-home mandate didn’t start officially until yesterday.
Yesterday, I showered and put on my good sweats, the ones my other sister got me. The ones with pockets, one of which is labeled with the directive “fuck you I’m MARRIED.”
Today, those sweats are in the washing machine, and I felt too unprepared to choose backup pants. Plus, the PINCH is so real on my waist. When your sweatpants are already feeling tight before the quarantine has really even begun, well, that’s one more reason robes are great.
So it is that I am wearing winter and debating if it’s time to switch to summer, as I peruse assorted computer tabs, all of which are open to area donut menus. (For the record, St. George’s is still open. Krispy Kreme is drive-thru. Hurts is curbside on Republic and carry-out downtown.)
Anyway, what are you guys doing? Hmu if you wanna talk about sugar or not pants.