Friday, January 4, 2013

Sad, Sad Pajama Pants

If her pants ripped any higher, Paige knew she'd have to coax the ferret she wore in to desperately throw itself over her North and South. Divide and conquer, my friend.
Morning Readers,

They say the key to a great marriage is remembering to wear cute bed things every now and then. So, for the life of me, I can't figure out why this thing is still going strong. Seriously. Now, before you go and get all riled up, remember I said, "now and then." In Husband's case, I'm absolutely sure he's been left with no other choice than believing I buy my pajamas whenever the circus comes through town and makes a donation to Goodwill.

Which is, of course, ridiculous to the eightieth degree. The finer things I own have been knit out of dying hemp plants, by blind monkeys who took one knitting class from a Youtube video. And they're very, very drunk monkeys because no one would want that job except a blind, drunk monkey. Or Lindsay Lohan. I hear she's looking for work.

Over the past three years, Husband's been treated to variations on a theme:

Boxer shorts with ratty t-shirt

Ratty t-shirt with stretched-out yoga pants

Stretched-out yoga pants with ratty tank top

Ratty tank top with decrepit boxer shorts

Stumbling on my post-partum form rooting through the fridge at 2am, in granny panties and seven-year-old sports bra that used to say, "Yeah, Exercise!" and now says, "Meh."

Ratty shorts with maternity swimsuit top I fell asleep in

Maternity swim top with swim bottoms I fell asleep in

Maternity swim bottoms, nothing else, sitting bolt upright in the dead of night and yelling, "Sweet Baby James, has anyone seen my child? The baby pool? Oh." And passing back out again.

I mention it today, only because things have started getting out of hand. The pants I wear now are some of my favorites. A gift from my mother-in-law when the twins were born, I've utilized these delicately printed flower beauties more times than can be counted ...and they're starting to rip.

"Just another day," I coax.

"But we're ripped at the ankles."

"You can do it."

"You're snowy white calf is hanging out. We look like a pair of chaps."

"Shh, ignore it."

"We want to retire, not be a loincloth."

I pat them softly. "It'll all be over soon. When you're a headband."

Letting go is just so hard, and I know I'm not alone in this. The one person I feel sorry for is Husband. At this point, I'm sure I should invest in something cute, but then the mystery of what hideous thing I'm going to wear would be lost. And every marriage needs mystery, and swimsuit bottoms, and headbands.

Until Next Time, Readers!












Until Next Time, Readers!