On Saturday, my laptop cord broke. It was well past the point of being successfully rigged with electrical tape, so J and I went to the Apple Store to get a new one.
On the way into the mall, we saw a girl wearing pajama pants and a really ratty sweatshirt. Her hair was gathered on top of her head in a scrunchy, and she looked like she’d either just gotten out of bed, or carefully crafted her look so it would look like she’d just gotten out of bed and was even adorable when she wasn’t trying.
“How hard is it to put on real pants?” I whispered to J, because I was feeling crabby and judgmental.
Apparently, it’s very hard, because yesterday, I spent the entire day wearing my pajama pants. I picked all the peppers from my garden, and roasted them on the grill so I could marinate and freeze them. I told myself that I’d just start the grill and then go put on pants, but then I thought that my pajama pants already smelled like grill smoke, and my jeans didn’t, so why should I bother getting dressed?
So, I spent the entire afternoon in the backyard wearing plaid flannel pajama pants, puffy slippers, and a ratty sweatshirt, with my hair in a messy, stubby ponytail. I wasn’t trying, but I wasn’t adorable either. I’m sure my immediate neighbors saw me, but since I regularly take the dog outside in my writing sweater, I figure there’s no point in putting on airs with them.
Also, on Friday, I picked the last of the viable tomatoes and pulled every freaking tomato plant out of the ground. It was so damn satisfying.
Today, I am wearing pants.