I am addicted to pajamas.
The pajama drawer of my dresser is stuffed with over a dozen pairs — and yesterday, from my favorite store — I brought home two more.
Sometimes spelled “pyjamas” and nicknamed “PJ’s, jimjams, and jammies”, pajamas derives from the Hindustani word for lightweight drawstring trousers traditionally worn by Islamic Continental Indians. Perfect for lounging. Perfect for sleeping. Perfect for so much more.
Like interchangeable monastic robes, each pair I wear depends upon my manic-depressive mood.
Mostly manic and mostly mystical, in the sanctity of my sacred space, I call home.
Coffee drinking (Yes, again, coffee drinking.)
All in my pajamas: fleece, flannel, cotton, short and long, worn through and brand new.
All in my pajamas, in an hour or two, I collect my thoughts and reconfigure my gut,
at least for the next day or so.
I recommend it most highly — in these most exceedingly strange and stressful times.
Pajamas: a way of life.