But anyway, I'm not the kind of person who gets dressed up for the evening. I don't have cute little robes. I have a big Mommy robe--and I know you know the kind I'm talking about. It's three parts Barney and one part Grimace. I'm more concerned with my comfort than how I'm reppin' my image at night. You know. I'm all about cozies. Other people must wear cute things. I imagine them having a little evening wardrobe, not wearing their glasses and smearing Mentholatum all over their faces. Not sporting a hairdon't that would pride Carla from Cheers. I imagine them to be coiffed and unwrinkled in their little PJ sets. I'm talking about the not-sweatpants. The not-T-shirts. The not-floral tank tops you got for your 13th birthday but they still fit so you're going to wear them PROUDLY and anybody who tells you that a Wal Mart tank from 1993 is just wrong can just suck it.
I mean, I wonder this: are there people who get home after a hard day and they're like damn, I'm so freaking
hot hawtt that I need to show off this shexy bod by walking around the house in booty shorts and a cami? I also picture said kind of woman with some kind of pink marabou slipper, BTW. She slips out of her work garb and into a world where grown women piece together fluffy, coordinating sleep outfits. Ew. Not me. I'm at home in my cut-off sweats (capri length, no pockets, thanks) and old-as-sin T shirts (best kind = neck cut out). And I'm not talking (nor am I going to talk) about sexytime, so if you read this far hoping for something juicy it's not gonna happen, mon frere. I just mean when you browse through the VS catalog there's all kinds of stuff under "loungewear" and it all seems inappropriately fussy to me. When I want to lounge, I want to (two syllables:) lounge. I don't want a sofa, I want a big ass sloppy couch. I don't want a wine glass, I want a plastic cup. I don't want a creme puff, I want a brownie. And I don't want three piece pajamas or flannel sets with buttons (ew), I want cotton and elastic.
I say all of this because I'm blogging on my bed in my best pair of fancy PJs and I feel like a total tool. Truth be told, it's because all of the aforementioned cotton goodies are in the dirty laundry, but who would know that unless I posted it on the internets for the world to read, right? Oh dear. So I've got these pink PJs on--MATCHING, I TELL YOU--(for the love of Pete, I don't even match things when I go to work) and I just feel so DUMB. I'm just not fancy, though I'd like to use that word as much as possible just because it seems like a one word oxymoron.
The answer to the question you're asking at this point, internet, is YES, E would prefer something other than the cozies of which I'm so fond. But it's hard enough to be (occasionally) cute for work... now I'm going to come home and be all check me out in my matching pajama wear, family!--ehrm, no. And really while he hopes for something less sweatpant-like in his life, he isn't really making some kind of show of himself either with the tighty-whity parade he's been on since April of 2000. You know? Fair's fair.
I don't know what this post was even supposed to be about. I think I'm still trying to "write my way in" to something here. But I do know that I don't feel any less ridiculous about my pretty pink and black damask jammies than I did when I started. The cat is frankly unimpressed, and not to betray any family secrets here, but I'll be asleep about three hours before E shuts off CODMW2 on the ol' XBox to come to bed.
Hopefully tomorrow it's back to cozies.