Today has been a great day. Rich and I slept in until almost 11 (scandalous!), had lunch at Panera before browsing for random goodies at Target, bought a car, then followed it up with sushi for dinner. I took Mollie for an hour long walk all over the nieghborhood and down the beach while talking to my brother on the cell phone. And now I'm watching the end of National Treasure in HD.
I'm so pleased.
I wrote a note on my hand today for the first time in years. I really wanted to ask my therapist a question and knew in the rush and routine of our regular visit I would forget it, so I scribbled it on my hand in the car. I used to write notes on the back of my hand all the time in high school and college. PDAs either didn't exist or weighed more like stone tablets so I didn't have a good way to send electronic reminders back then. The Treo phone worked well for a while or I just became compulsive enough to remember everything without any prompting. But old age is starting to set in and life continues to get more and more complicated each year so I need a little help.
I have reminders on my phone for recycling day and when to give the dogs heartworm pills, but it's not ideal for everything, so in my haste today I went old school. I felt nostalgic and calm looking at my graphitti'ed hand as though even writing down the subject cleared it from my brain's cache. But the good feeling could have just been from going to my therapist in the first place.
It's only 50 minutes every two weeks but Gary has a genuine interest in my well being and isn't intimately connected to me personally or professionally. I make lists of topics to cover either in my head or on the iPhone and sometimes even the list itself gets the ball rolling of prioritizing my concerns. When I first started going (wow, six years ago!) I had to cover items in chronological order but today I was all over the place. I could survive without going to Gary but we both enjoy our hour together. I think he enjoys listening to my wacky antics and I enjoy getting an hour to myself every two weeks.
But after that hour passes the day races on. The hand-written reminder is fading off my hand, I'm late for a meeting, my in box is full of "action items," Rich and I have to high-tail it to Richmond for dinner with the in-laws, and the dog shit all over the rug with diarrhea for unknown causes. It's just another day in Paradise. Rich always asks if I "had good Gary" when I get back and the answer is almost always yes.
As I prepped for bed in the hotel last night, I pondered the practicality of pajamas. I don't remember owning pajamas as a child and usually just wore an old t-shirt to bed as a teenager. Even as an adult my bedtime apparel is random. I can see in some cases a set of pajamas would be worthwhile for an infant to keep him from getting tangled in covers or scratching himself. But as an adult I've pretty much mastered the art of covers maintenance, or at least am willing to suffer the consequences of throwing my own comforter onto the floor at 3am. Flannel jammies will not save me.
I've worn multiple layers of clothing to bed sometimes if I'm really cold and Rich isn't (just a few weeks ago I was in a full sweatsuit and socks when I retired for the evening) but that usually means I wake up soaked in sweat by dawn. I don't actually own any pajamas now except for a worn out night shirt I bought a lifetime ago so I could get up to pee in the middle of the night at Rich and Gabrielle's without my ass hanging out for all to see.
Most pajama bottoms shrink alarmingly so that they're boot cut capris made of pilly faded flannel after only a few washings. It hardly seems worth it. Monday night I went to bed in yoga pants and the t-shirt I had worn that day because I was cold. Last night I wore a pair of socks and my underwear to bed because I was hot but my feet were cold.
My mother has a whole section of her wardrobe she calls "sleepin' clothes" that are usually knit pants and oversized t-shirts. She'll wear them in bed, around the house or driving the short mile to our house but very rarely in public. My version of "sleepin' clothes" is a little more flexible in that I've tried to go out in public with them and Rich has to give me that look at the front door as I try to leave that I really should invest the time in a bra, a clean shirt and matching socks. Damn him, always fencing me in.
So what do you normally wear in the midnight hour? Do you have a bedtime routine and ensemble or is it just your tighty whities? Is it seasonal? Does it depend on if you're sharing your bed or sleeping alone?