Why can’t pajamas be a verb? And why can’t my constipation smirk look more like a plain old smirk?
Following the heartless bitch who stole our morale, here’s a detailed selection of photographs chronicling the pajamas I told you I’d be wearing through the days of Sandy’s wrath. She was not a science-prone squirrel or ingenue at all, people. It’s uncomfortable but rather hysterical that three days deep, while uptown, where upper echelon dwellers continue to live life as usual, I am without much else to wear.
Granted, I had certainly not opted for a pair of mixed metal pumps in light of the torrential downpour and subsequent wild winds but I do wish the Panda beneath me were mobile. Things could have been easier, you know? Pandas know the secret.
Originally, I’d hoped this might function as a mini expose on the joys of free-wear. This is a play on will and the fact that I am compelled to explain that signals red flags far and wide. My friend had bought them for me as a “see you in Paris!” gift just before fashion week. She forgot to bring them overseas with her and because she had a pair that she jovially wore quite chronically, I felt sad. I later learned this was no innocent oversight. She had opted for one more sweater–one she wouldn’t even wear–over packing the PJs. I’m not hurt by it though. I just think there’s something to matching roommates in foreign countries and she broke that for us.
Eventually, I received the gift (over drinks at The Bowery Hotel.) I vowed I’d wear them out–after seeing Diana Vreeland’s documentary, I made a point to implement the “Why Don’t You” formula of her deceased Harper’s Bazaar column in my every day.
Why Don’t You wear pajamas to a cocktail party?
I had been so keen on the idea while we were in France and though they were cotton and though they’d wrinkle, I did what I said I would do.
Some thought it was an ironic gesture but my rock hard exterior and strategic placement of tongue-above-lip-below-nose (see above) put those speculations to sleep. One man along Mercer Street asked me where my horse was parked which confused the shit out of me–do horseback riders frequent Soho in pajamas?–and then I realized I had been wearing a very large hat at the time. Just like that, my white piping had been overlooked.
For the most part, fewer than anticipated eyebrows were raised. Maybe the shoe and blazer choice imparted formality on the look. The necklaces were a decent accoutrement too. I drank, I laughed, I squatted without even the slightest hesitation and when all was said and done: I came home, hung my blazer, took off my shoes, brushed my teeth (maybe) and got into bed. An easy transition indeed, and tomorrow’s repetition was just hours away.