I don’t know what the rest of you do when you get home from work, but the very first thing I do is remove my work wear and slip into something frumpy.
I don’t care if my clothes match, or fit for that matter. If it feels good, I’m wearing it. I just want to be comfortable.
I dress for work in a way that is professional-meets-I-am-faking-it-fashionable, and sometimes I’m squeezed into waist bands, fussy shoes and confined in zipped up pieces. So when I get home, I just want to let it all hang out, but like within the stretchy confines of loose joggers and saggy T-shirts that redefine shabby chic.
I just hope nobody shows up at the house unannounced because I don’t imagine I can sprint up the stairs in time to find appropriate door-answering attire, so you get what you get.
On the flip side, it makes me chuckle to think to myself that my mate must really be struggling to control himself when I’m rocking my exotic lounge wear. It must be distracting. All those saggy joggers with loose T-shirts and the messy hair clip, must just scream lustful thoughts at him. I can’t help it. I am what I am. Loving me means loving all of me. It’s in the contract (I know, because I wrote it).
But I realized the other day that I’d sunk to an all-time low. I passed a mirror and took a good look at the zero-effort reflection and thought to myself, I should maybe try harder to look decent around the people I love. Try.
In a rare moment, I found myself alone at a mall. I loathe malls. Loathe shopping. But, I was seeking a special gift for a friend when I walked past one of those lingerie-style shops, loaded with everything from lace and satin to flannels and cottons. And it hit me: I just need new, modern pyjamas. Lounge wear is the new jogging suit.
I should declare that these stores make me uncomfortable. I secretly want to browse the fancy, shall we say slinky, attire that costs a stupid amount of money given there is nothing to it, but my true nature leads me to the back of the store to the sale rack (because frugal is fun and also sexy), where I came upon the most amazing lounge pyjamas I have ever seen. It was destiny. And they were 50% off.
I have two words for you: chicken pyjamas. I kid you not, I screamed aloud to no one who knew me, “The Carpenter would love these.” And I maybe screamed back to myself in response, “Find me a medium.”
If there’s one thing the Carpenter misses from our short-lived country lifestyle, it’s his chickens. You never saw a man more devoted to his feathered friends than that guy. Well, now, I could bring back some of that joy with a two-piece cotton ensemble worn by the love of his life. From my shoulder to my feet, I would be swathed in a pattern of multi-coloured chickens. Still frumpy, but feather inspired. Poultry pyjamas. On sale, even. Bargain, baby.
I wish you could have seen his face when I leapt into the room in my chicken pyjamas. I truly do. It’s difficult to put into words the real-time complexity of horror-humour emotion on his sweet face. Totally worth it. I may go back for the slippers. Seriously.
