Friday, June 12, 2015
Ode To My Jammies
Most of the time, I write in jammies and my preferred jammies are knee-length cotton t-shirt style nightshirts with a v-neck. I prefer plain solid colors like gray or blue or pink, no cutesy designs need apply, not even kitties. And I prefer them very baggy. If I'm not wearing one of these long t-shirts while at the keyboard, I'm wearing capri-length yoga pants or cotton knit shorts and a regular t-shirt. But you see the pattern here: t-shirts and soft natural cotton material. Oh, and no bra, that's the most important thing here. No. Bra.
Now you know why I don't take my laptop and write in public places like libraries and coffee shops like a lot of my colleagues. I can't concentrate in those places. One of the reasons I can crank out so many books in such a short time is my ability to concentrate for long periods of time with the focus of a laser beam. I can't do that in public. The second reason I don't write in public is that I'd have to get dressed. Even in the middle of a heat-wave, I will not abandon my hellish 3rd floor apt. and trek to a public place with AC. I'd rather aim the fan at me and the computer and keep plugging away.
The jammies hitting the skids today are (or were) purple. They've been washed over the years until they are now a dull lavender. There is a star over the chest with the words Make A Wish under the star. I've made a lot of wishes in those jammies. The front of the shirt is dotted with spots from splashed bleach and bathroom cleaners. There's even a few permanent food stains here and there. The three-quarter sleeves are threadbare at the elbows and torn at the shoulders. There are even tiny holes in the fabric from the cats laying on the shirt and kneading with their claws out. This poor item of clothing is even too beat up for me to wear anymore while home alone.
The purple night shirt has served me well, keeping me comfy during hours of writing and hours of TV and hours of sleep. I feel I should put it on an ice floe and set it out to sea with great ceremony. But we don't have ice floes in Los Angeles. I could burn it and scatter the ashes somewhere significant, but that might be considering littering.
No, in the end it will go on to live yet another chapter in its very useful life. I will wash it and use it to line B's bed. She's probably the one who made the tiny claw marks in it anyway.