Bad Gramma Jammas
Beauty sleep does not look beautiful in my world. I have a collection of some of the ugliest pajamas that mankind has ever seen. I don’t care if you judge me. I have no desire to sleep fashionably. No one sees me. I’m all kinds of single right now. And my roommate is very forgiving (also, I think he thought I was crazy BEFORE he knew this about me).
When these pajamas came into my life, I didn’t know they were ugly. I wore them around my family for years, and NO ONE SAID A THING. Mostly because they came from family.
You see, most of my pajamas are hand-me-downs from my [age redacted] grandmother.
For some reason, it never occurred to me until just now how weird that last sentence sounds. But it’s true. I wear nightgowns that my grandmother purchased, wore, and then decided she didn’t want anymore. Probably because SHE realized how grotesque they are. Many of them were purchased in the ‘80s. I’m sure some of them predate me.
My family seemed cool with these pajamas. Long, sack-like wooly nightgowns, that started at a cowl or turtleneck, and floated shapelessly down to my feet. One is grey, with wide pink cuffs and a pink neck, and a small pink 5-pointed star embroidered on one sleeve. One is green and grey micro-striped, with dark green collar and cuffs. Those were the favorites. Nice and warm for a chilly Michigan winter night.
I loved these nightgowns, blissfully unaware of my appearance. And then I went to college.
Suddenly, I was famous in my all-female dorm at my all-female college for being the girl with the ugly nightgowns.
At first, I tried to defend my sleepwear. And then pretended for awhile that I was wearing them ironically. And eventually, I just embraced the epithet.
When I returned from my first visit home that year, I made sure to bring the most questionable of my slumber-chic attire back to the dorms with me. A black, red, and yellow color-blocked jumpsuit. It’s like footie pajamas minus the feet. A bedtime bodysuit, if you will. It makes me feel like a poor man's Michael Jackson, and I danced insanely through the dorm hallways in it. I also made my friend Anna promise that the picture she took of me wearing it would never end up on the internet.
There is absolutely no excuse for this hideous monstrosity. But it is oh so warm. I feel like I’m wearing a Hot Pocket. And it’s oddly calming to be wrapped up in ugly. Perhaps it’s because I was swaddled as a baby.
I asked my grandmother once what inspired her to acquire these items in the first place. I thought for sure that her reason for buying them would be my reason for keeping them; they are hard-core comfortable, and keep you as warm as Luke Skywalker probably was in that animal he killed and slept inside of in that one Star Wars movie, but less smelly. (Editor's note: That creature is called a Tauntaun, and Luke doesn't kill it. It dies of exposure, then Han cuts it open. Luke is unconscious the whole time. How does Angela not know this?) But no. Grandma said they were trendy when she got them. She claimed they were all “designer” garments that she had “bought at Saks” and were “not cheap.” She also said the designer was a gay man who had died, and that I should keep them in the family because they were collector’s items.
They are my items. I am the collector.
When I brought back a new nightgown after spring break, I wondered if it would change things for me. Picture it: It had long sleeves and went to the floor, but unlike my winter wear, it was lightweight. It was white. It was lacy. It was feminine, if still Little House on the Prairie levels of conservative. But it had neon pink and purple Hawaiian flowers on it. Surely, this was more hip than the my grandma's nightgowns. It had belonged to my aunt, and I believe she told me that she had worn it on her honeymoon… (And somehow that last statement only started sounding weird when I typed it...) In retrospect, I'm not sure that it matched itself. Lace and neon aren't found together in nature. The nickname remained. Now, I’m a grown woman (despite my frequent protestations on the subject). And I often wear baggy purple pajamas that my dad bought for me and my mom (pajama twins!) that are large enough that they could fit two of me (which reminds me, I really need to start watching Orphan Black...). They are shamefully comfortable, and keep me warm on Los Angeles winter nights (don’t you judge me, Midwestern friends… You acclimate to your surroundings. I may or may not be writing this while wearing a green bathrobe over my clothes, and cuddled underneath two camping blankets in my apartment, while it’s about 65 degrees outside. SOMETIMES I GET COLD).
And yes, these pajamas might be keeping me single. But they’re so warm that I forget that I’m not cuddled up with the man of my dreams. SHUT UP, I DIDN’T WANT TO DATE YOU ANYWAY, YOU JUDGMENTAL SARTORIAL INSOMNIAC.
Side note: Anybody want to cuddle with a girl in very warm pajamas? It’s okay with me if you need to close your eyes.
Love, Angela
