"There should be a law that there's a pajama day every few weeks.”
Should I be embarrassed to admit it is almost 4:00 pm EST and I am still in my pj's? Should I confess that this is not the first time this week this has happened? What exactly constitutes the making of a habit? More than twice?
As habits go, there are some that could be worse but few as comfortable as I how am feeling. I wonder how close I am to actually being called a sloth. Then I think it's my house, my body is covered, no one but Dad and Sweetie are here to see the sloth so does it really matter what I wear? Then I ask myself what about those kids who walk down the street with their pants hanging down around their thighs and I ask myself am I on the verge of becoming something I detest? Then I think about what a good day it's been so far and I have to attribute some of it to the ease I'm feeling.
It's not as if on the days I decide to get dressed I clad myself in clothes that are so very different from my sleeping suit. Jeans and a T-shirt are my basic "big girl" attire. I have two pairs of jeans that are several years old and broken in to just the right shade of blue with threads that barely stay together.
This morning (morning being a relative term that could include any hour between 10 and 2!) I turned on the kitchen radio as I cleaned the bird cages. I've found that Ernst (the prize-winning German roller canary), Ewell and Hoppin' John (beautiful Lady Gouldian finches who haven't won any contests but would sure to be finalists on an Avian version of American Idol.*) like to sing along with the radio. For some reason that makes no sense to me, they especially like country gospels. Go figure!
So there I am wearing flannel bottoms and a sleeveless t-shirt, with my elbows deep in sudsy water full of bird paraphernalia. The birds are on the table not even looking at the bowl of lukewarm water that is there to entice them to bathe in something other than the little water cups that they drink from. The doors to the kitchen are closed to keep out the bird hungry cats who look innocent enough yet are anything but. Aretha Franklin comes on the radio. I've got the beat. I start dancing around the table with moves I thought were long forgotten. My booty starts shaking. I'm in the groove.
"R-E-S-P-E-C-T," sings Aretha.
"Right on!" sing I even though I'm running out of breath. Is this how Jane Fonda got started I ask the birds who have still shunned the bath water.
I guess you had to be there, but it was quite an enjoyable romp. I'm trying to make the most out of this staying close to home so Dad won't get lonely thing. Maybe I'm on to something.
I find, however, I'm a little late. Apparently hanging out in one's pajamas is not a new thing. Here I am getting all excited about International Women's Day only to discover I've totally missed out on SUPER International Pajama Day. Oh well, there's always next year ... or tomorrow for that matter!
If you go to this website: http://www.unraveling.org/photos/pajama_gallery/index.html
you'll discover #1 that I'm not alone in my pajama wearing and #2 people who like to hang out in their pj's also apparently like to knit! Who knew?
For those of you who have to get dressed up to go to work, I hope you'll allow yourself a Pajama Day on the weekend. There's something very freeing about it. Enjoy!
* Gouldians are the perfect example of what God can do with his Divine paint brush. I think they are known for their beauty not their song. But when one decides to sing, he puffs himself up - chest up, back straight, head thrown back and lets out a whistle that makes the German Roller take notice. I don't know if it's better to listen to them or watch them sing.