Pajama Pants

I was unshowered. My “Let the Big Dawg Eat” hat, which was too small for my head, was tilted upwards so as to cover as much of my oily hair as possible. I had not shaven in several days. I glanced down and saw my pajama pants and flip flops. Then looking back up and stealthily sipping on some Dr. Pepper, my bleary eyes tried to focus on the music projected on the screen at the front of the room. We were discussing falling fifths, a simple but elegant progression often used in classical music.

I dropped my pencil. Leaning over to pick it up, I saw my outfit once more and something clicked in my mind. What was I thinking? Had I no good taste, no sense of decorum or decency? How could I have ever allowed myself to step out of my dorm in such a state? Shame rushed over me as I considered my case. I could see the hard-working faces of my forebears in a field somewhere, laboring from dawn to dusk. How pitiful it was that after all their toil and effort to make a living, to get their children and grandchildren a leg up in life, their progeny would be so miserable and pathetic. I blushed to think what even my living relatives would think if they could see me now.

My face beet red, I knew I must do something. I quietly excused myself out of the back of the class and headed to the restroom. The eyes of passersby caught me, and, though they seemed courteous, I knew they were wondering how such refuse of the earth could actually be in their music building.

Quickly passing by their scrutiny, I arrived at the restroom and went inside to hide. There, finally, I was safe and could do something to fix my sorry estate. I took one look in the mirror and cringed. Eager to fix the problem, I took off my shirt, turned it around, and flipped it inside out. Looking in the mirror again, I found the image much more agreeable. I looked down and no longer saw the tag of my shirt dangling in front of my neck, but rather the shirt’s tasteful front. At that moment, I vowed never again to be so loose with myself as to wear my shirt inside out and backwards to class.

I took one more look at the mirror and still thought something looked off. “Ah yes! My hat.” I donned its gracious cover once again and returned to class, finally put back in order.

Not only did I feel like I had disgraced my forebears that day, I also felt rather ashamed that my pajama pants had to put up with such a ridiculous counterpart in their ensemble. But they are gracious and forgiving, my pants, and I do not think they begrudged it me or the shirt. The pants were the most comfortable I have ever owned, though they had humble beginnings. I found them in a clearance heap at Walgreen’s one day. They were purple and blue plaid and roomy in the legs. In fact, they still are so, for I have not forsaken them to this day though I have had them since high school.

They have seen many a college classroom, many a midnight walk around the quad, and untold hours of lounging here and there as my whims dictated. But recently I have grown concerned, for I can tell the pants are losing some of their earlier vitality. The elastic waistband is now visible atop the pants, some frays have developed, and they are generally feeling their age. I have already been through one difficult separation with a pair of pajama pants. I bought them at about the same time, and they too were blue and comfortable. I wore them regularly along with my current pair, but they did not last as well, and before long there were significant tears on these pants. It came to the point that I had to shear off large portions of the legs as the tears crept up like ivy. When they were more like capris or even shorts than pants, I decided it was time to end my bigamous relationship and settle for only one pair of pajama pants. I said adieu to the much amputated pants, and ever since I have been a monogamous pajama wearer.

I do fear what will happen when my current pair descends to the grave, though. All the younger types these days lack the depth of character I so relish in my current pair. The younger ones are fickle and flighty, prone to faithlessness at the most inopportune times (like just before a vacation, when a small piece of home works wonders on your ability to sleep).

And so in anticipation of the period ahead, I have a small poem to dedicate to my pajamas.

One pant, two pant, three pant, four,

Hie thee not out of my door.

Five pant, six pant, seven pant, eight,

I fear I’ll mourn thee ere too late.

I wish you all long relationships with your pajamas.