In Praise of Loungewear

Margo Oxendine, Contributing Writer

Margo Oxendine

It is 12:42 p.m. I should be ashamed to admit it, but I am sitting here in my pajamas.

The truth is, I am not ashamed.

Since most of my “work” is done at home, I am free to lounge around in loungewear as often, and as long, as I like.

And I like pajamas. In the heat of summer, pajamas are the coolest thing I have to wear. And I have plenty of them.

I wonder just how many pairs of pajamas I do have. For me, they’ve taken the place formerly held by shoes. At one time, I probably had more than 100 pairs of fabulous shoes. And still, when I saw a pair I loved, I’d buy them.

Now that I’m older, I only wear perhaps five pairs of shoes. No more heels or sling-backs for me. No, I have discovered Alegria Shoes. If orthopedic shoes could be considered “fabulous,” my four pairs of Alegria certainly are.

Of course, there are also slippers. Oh, how I love my slippers, almost as much as pajamas. I never wear shoes inside. And I never, ever go barefoot, except when stepping out of or into the shower. Even as a kid, I did not like to go barefoot. That’s a shame these days, because I do get a pedicure on a regular basis. Still, my fantastic toes are for me to see and admire, between the shower and the bathmat.

But back to the pajamas. I have six or seven filmy cotton pajamas I wear during the summer. And if I don’t have to go out that day — say, when it is 92 degrees in the midst of August — I may well be in my PJs all day long. When the afternoon shower is finished, I put on a fresh pair. Voila! Add slippers, and my at-home ensemble is complete. My pajamas are always clean, they always match, and they could be considered quite attractive.

I absolutely never wear my pajamas outside, unless it’s to hang the laundry on the line. I do not, for instance, wear pajamas to slip down the driveway to collect the mail. I do not wear pajamas to run to the Country Café and pick up my to-go order. I did indeed wear PJs to the drug store once, but I was sick, and someone drove me there because only I could pick up this particular prescription. I wore a raincoat over the pajamas, even though the day was sunny. Perhaps I struck passersby as some sort of potential pervert. Didn’t matter.

I certainly would not be caught dead in my pajamas at Walmart. Too bad that so much of the rest of the rural population does not feel the same. It really irks me to see a herd of slobs shopping at Walmart in what are obviously their pajamas. And none of this loungewear could by any stretch of the imagination be called attractive. Or, for that matter, clean. No. These pajamas are dragging the store floor, with fraying, filthy hems. They are emblazoned with skulls, or motorcycles, or once-cheery teddy bears. These pajamas have obviously not been through the laundry in quite some time.

Now that I’m thinking about wearing pajamas in public, a certain incident does come to mind.

A girlfriend and I went to West Virginia — America’s best-kept travel secret — to go on a zip-lining adventure. We are both women “of a certain age.” We probably had no business deciding to mark zip-lining off our bucket lists. Nonetheless, we did. How were we to know that we’d blundered into the longest, most grueling zip-line course in America? Among the many scary things we discovered was this: Once you start a zip- line course, you absolutely must finish. Otherwise, you’re stuck in the middle of the woods, miles from what passes for civilization.

So, by the end of the day, we were dragging. I don’t recall ever being so tired and sore. Our hotel had a nice restaurant with a terrific view of the forest where we’d had our adventure. (Travel tip: Hawk’s Nest State Park.) We were hungry, and thankfully, only had to walk a few steps to the restaurant.

So, after showering, I donned my cute new pajamas. They almost looked like a kicky summer outfit. And I limped into that restaurant with my head held high. Even if my back end was dragging.