Jammies in the Hood

by tess

Admittedly I spend more time in pajamas than most normal people. On Fridays I wear jeans long enough to go grocery shopping, and then don’t dress again until Tuesday. On the three days per week that I actually work, my real clothes rest on my back exactly long enough to return home, but not quite long enough to trek from the garage to the closet.

Consequently I own lots of nighties. But the line between sleepwear and sportswear can be a fuzzy one. Do we define jammies as clothing elements in which one sleeps? Or must they be purchased within the sleepwear section of a store? Nightwear is frequently referred to as loungewear. Where exactly does one lounge and is loungewear appropriate in all lounging areas? Or might pjs be defined as anything you shouldn’t wear in public, therefore more “homewear” than “bedwear.” And who decides what may be worn in public? Stacy London espouses certain strident theories, but I’m betting Whoopie Goldberg’s might be a bit more accommodating.

Pajamas are as varied as the people who wear them, from silky lace teddies to oversized plaid flannel. Sleepshirts, peignoirs, boxers, sarongs, gowns, footies. You can tell a lot about people from their nightwear selection. And exposing pjs to those outside the family tends to be a surreal experience.

On Sunday nights when The Hubs is out of town, I wait until bedtime before stumbling out with the garbage. Since I refuse to “dress” for my 30 seconds of garbage duty, I tend to layer pjs: perhaps a nightgown semi-tucked into shorts with a sweatshirt concealing most of the bralessness. And every Sunday night my neighbor sits in a folding chair in front of his garage, smugly admiring the tidiness of his lawn debris collection, perfectly organized recycling, and barely-used mops. And every Sunday he refuses to do what any normal person would do: Ignore the old fat woman in her terrifying jammy rig. I do my part, I pretend he’s a bush wearing a ballcap and sandals with socks. But inevitably as I escape to my over-bright garage, I hear “Hey, Tess.” Really? REALLY? Must we chat? “Hey, Otis.”

Another surreal moment captured in pajamas: hurricane aftermath. If you’ve never experienced the great pleasure that is a hurricane, basically you’re locked inside your electricity-deprived house which is further darkened and cut off from all possible airflow by heavy metal shutters bolted into every window and door. You spend the first few hours chatting, laughing, drinking, and playing cards by specially-purchased, battery-operated camping lanterns. Then the voice on the specially-purchased, battery-operated radio cuts in long enough to confirm that it’s a big one and it’s headed your way. That crystalline moment separates the men from the boys. Or in my house, it separates The Hubs from The Panicking Freakshow. He sleeps. I vacillate between praying and crying, all the while listening to that voice on the radio, the lifeline that will somehow manage to drag my kicking, screaming, bartering, weeping self through this horror.

A lifetime later, the whistling and howling of the wind abate. The incessant battering of tree limbs and building debris mercifully comes to a halt. En masse the neighborhood emerges from hours and hours of darkness into the odd yellow-green half-light of hurricanes. Shell-shocked and wearing nothing more than jammies we inspect our homes and those of our neighbors, evaluating the damage and wondering if insurance will cover it. Did we make it? Are those my roof tiles? Is everyone okay?

Then for an hour, it’s a hybrid pajama - block party in a Leave it to Beaver community. Everyone smiles and is thrilled to be alive; happy to lend chainsaws, food, propane, and good wishes. But an hour later, somewhere a silent clock chimes. The neighborhood collectively awakes from its dream recognizing we’re wearing only pajamas, realizing we’re behaving like the denizens of some latter day Mayberry RFD. We all return to our homes, shaking our heads, in awe of the dreamscape that had temporarily enveloped us. The bonhomie dispersed, we return to our worries. How soon can I reach my insurance agent? How long until electricity is restored? When will the traffic lights be fixed? Am I ready for the first of many cold showers? What if the roof leaks? When will grocery stores open again? Do we have enough gas for the generator?

But in the days and weeks to come as normal life is recovered, we remember the SpongeBob Square Pants pjs that prim and proper She Who Must Be Adored had on. And The Neighborhood Drunk proudly sporting his fuschia wife beater and tie-dyed Zubaz. We’ve shared not only a potentially life-altering event but a secret glimpse into the personalities (and drawers) of our neighbors. We may only wave sporadically now, but we always smirk. We know what you’re wearing at night.