Miss Tibbit-the-Useless-Little-Black-Dog is pressed against me here on the sofa. She is super fluffy and still a little damp. Hamish is asleep in his chair looking rumpled. We all had a tense evening and I made an early surrender to the sweatpants.
You know what I’m talking about. There comes a point when a person submits to the notion that the day is over. That there is no need to be in any way presentable. In this moment, sweatpants are the only choice. Not pajamas because those aren’t even clothes. Sweatpants. Elastic waist. Sometimes, preferably, elastic ankles. Droopy. Large. Sickeningly comforting. So horrifying that even if the house were on fire I’d change into other pants.
Mine are 11 years old. I bought them when I was writing my PhD thesis and I vowed I would wear no other pants until it was finished. That took four months. Now they are a faded navy blue. They have zips at the ankles just in case I’m being active and need to shed my sporty outer layer. That’s just funny to think about, really. Because sweatpants activities in the WideEyedHousehold include 1) getting another glass of wine, and 2) watching tv. They used up their energy and intellectual capacity during the thesis writing.
Today I lost a conflict with a copier/scanner, fed the dermestid beetles, struggled to make sense of conflicting bone measuring schemes, researched grants, skimmed an entire volume on the extinction and extirpation of birds in Oceania. I returned overdue books to the library and filed paperwork in three places. I was thinking about the sweatpants before 3pm.
Then, just when the day should be verging toward evening: The Laundromutt.
Members of the WideEyedHousehold are cleaner. Softer. Less objectionable. But worn down to the bone. WideEyedSpouse just walked past my end of the sofa – in pajamas. “Straight to pajamas?” I asked. “I’m cutting out the middle man,” he said.