Who am I kidding? I can’t even see the line any longer.
What line? The Am I Dressed Line. The Never Leave the House in Pajamas Line. But then again, the line between being dressed and being in my jammies is now less distinct than ever.
Why? Because I love my husband.
Let me explain.
When we first married, my husband was the one who radiated heat. If my feet were cold when I got into bed at night, I just put my feet on him and voila! Toasty toes.
But the tables have turned. My husband is no longer a blast furnace, which is fortuitous for me because I, periodically, am radiating enough heat to melt iron ore. I’m pretty sure suns go nova at a lower temperature.
But my beloved husband has become so unreasonable. In the dead of winter, with nighttime temps in the teens, he won’t let me run the ceiling fan, much less sleep with the window open. So during a recent cold snap, I generously put the flannel sheets on the bed.
It’s like sleeping in an oven. I feel like a foil-wrapped baked potato, steaming inside my wrapper.
Husband? Still on the chilly side, thanks. So I came up with the brilliant idea of getting a polar fleece blanket sized for a single bed, and putting it just on his half of the bed. Much better.
But those flannel sheets? Still torture. So my solution was to sleep in an oversized t-shirt.
Yes, some of you will point out that I could sleep naked. But we decided after having children that we would traumatize them sufficiently without compounding middle-of-the-night emergencies with middle-aged nakedness.
When I get up in the morning, I slip into a pair of sweats or the bane of fashionistas everywhere–yoga pants. (No, I do not do yoga. No, I do not have any plans to start. Shut up.)
After the tea and the paper and the morning drama (who tells their parents they need a notarized signature at 7 a.m.? Thing One, that’s who.), I head for the computer. The idea is that I’ll check email, finish my tea, then get on with my day.
“Getting on” usually includes things like exercising, showering, breakfasting, getting dressed.
But if you’re wearing a big t-shirt and yoga pants, you’ve short-circuited the part of your brain that would normally tell you it’s time to jettison the jammies and get dressed. All of a sudden it’s after 1 p.m., I’m starving, still in my pjs and can’t figure out why it isn’t still morning.
And with my youngest in 8th grade, I finally did what I swore never to do–I drove her to school while I was still in my pajamas.
Hey, at least I was dressed by the time I picked her up that afternoon! I haven’t crossed that line. Yet.