The flannel has gotten so worn they’ve torn in a good eight places. Image Swiss cheese in a bright navy plaid.
Living alone as I do, I’ve been wearing them anyway not realizing what resembling a Dickens character is doing to my self-image. Seeing one’s ass on constant display can make or break a girl’s spirit.
The top is fine, it’s the bottoms that brandish my rear like it’s St. Tropez instead of the kitchen.
I have other pajamas. That’s actually an understatement. A couple dozen would be more accurate, and love them all. But these vintage Ralph Laurens that slept in so many nice hotels where breakfast came on fancy china wheeled by men with names like Sergio and Maurice are hard to part with.
They’re like family I actually still talk to.
Camille said I should retire them to the rag bag since they’d make a great shammy, or chamois, as she put it.
I truly feel I can’t turn them into the help just because they’ve gotten a little tatty. Where’s the gratitude for years of faithful service?
She then suggested an immediate shrink appointment as she put Preparation H under her eyes to reduce swelling.
Thee who cast the first hemorrhoid, if you will, should perhaps pause before speaking.
I get attached to my things, much more than people. My pajamas never made me wait at a restaurant for over an hour or forget we had plans at all.
They were always there nice and cozy for me to jump into, like the arms of a man you’ve known for a while.
I think I’ll just hand wash them and wear them one more time.
And maybe one more time after that.