Pajamas. A sure thing that things are slowly returning to normal post-breakupocolypse.
There are certain things that are different about my day-to-day that are different when I'm flying solo. I take daily bubble baths, read in the kitchen while drinking beer out of tiny juice glasses painted with cartoon cats, indulge in mind-numbing reality shows ("Rock of Love: Tour Bus," anyone?) while painting my toenails, each in a different color of pink. Try on my skinny jeans while contemplating the state of my ass in a full length mirror. Pick my nose in the car. Wear pajamas.
I can't stand sleeping in any sort of clothing when I'm sharing a bed with a lover. I'm really sensitive to temperature when I'm sleeping and sleeping with a grown man is often like sharing space with a hair-covered space heater stuck on "high." And the feeling of skin on skin is one of my favorite sensations.
After the breakup, I had a really hard time getting back into pajamas, despite the deep freeze that descended upon Portland at the end of the year. It just didn't feel natural. And wearing pajamas would be akin to finally accepting the fact that I would be sleeping alone for the foreseeable future.
If I managed to fall asleep clothed, I would wake in the night two or three times to peel off each layer, piece by piece. By the end of the week, tank tops, underpants and boxers littered the floor around the foot of my bed.
I'm taking baby steps with the whole pajama thing. Starting with a absurdly soft brown and turquoise tie dyed tank top, origin unknown, and a pink plaid pair of boxers I bought for a quarter at the McMinnville Goodwill Store in 1997. The effect is aesthetically ridiculous, but unspeakably comfortable. I've slept through the night and woken fully, yet partially, clothed the last three nights.
I also haven't cried since Christmas Day. But somehow the fact that I can now wear jammies to bed is a more comforting sign that my black cloud won't be lingering too much longer.
There are certain things that are different about my day-to-day that are different when I'm flying solo. I take daily bubble baths, read in the kitchen while drinking beer out of tiny juice glasses painted with cartoon cats, indulge in mind-numbing reality shows ("Rock of Love: Tour Bus," anyone?) while painting my toenails, each in a different color of pink. Try on my skinny jeans while contemplating the state of my ass in a full length mirror. Pick my nose in the car. Wear pajamas.
I can't stand sleeping in any sort of clothing when I'm sharing a bed with a lover. I'm really sensitive to temperature when I'm sleeping and sleeping with a grown man is often like sharing space with a hair-covered space heater stuck on "high." And the feeling of skin on skin is one of my favorite sensations.
After the breakup, I had a really hard time getting back into pajamas, despite the deep freeze that descended upon Portland at the end of the year. It just didn't feel natural. And wearing pajamas would be akin to finally accepting the fact that I would be sleeping alone for the foreseeable future.
If I managed to fall asleep clothed, I would wake in the night two or three times to peel off each layer, piece by piece. By the end of the week, tank tops, underpants and boxers littered the floor around the foot of my bed.
I'm taking baby steps with the whole pajama thing. Starting with a absurdly soft brown and turquoise tie dyed tank top, origin unknown, and a pink plaid pair of boxers I bought for a quarter at the McMinnville Goodwill Store in 1997. The effect is aesthetically ridiculous, but unspeakably comfortable. I've slept through the night and woken fully, yet partially, clothed the last three nights.
I also haven't cried since Christmas Day. But somehow the fact that I can now wear jammies to bed is a more comforting sign that my black cloud won't be lingering too much longer.
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