Sometimes people ask me: “Lyz, how do you get your sense of style. I want to know, so I can never dress like you ever.” The other day, I went to my cooking club and one woman was so shocked I wasn’t wearing leggings, she just stared at me in amazement. “Look,” she said, “you’re wearing lipstick…you look so good.”
What I’m trying to say is, style like this isn’t made, it’s born.
So, when I got the chance to try some pajama jeans. I stuffed what remaining dignity I had down my throat along with some Cadbury eggs and said, “Yes.”
When they came they were so comfortable. And yet, they were pants. PANTS! Could this be my turning point? Could I finally learn to love pants through Pajama Jeans? I put them on and paired them with my McLovin’ T-shirt. It seemed apt. Then, I sat down to write a post about weaponized bird flu, eat Cadbury eggs and chat with my friend Anna. Where was E? She was at the sitters. I mean I was working after all. My work is very serious.
“I’m wearing Pajama Jeans!” I told Anna. I’ve known her since college and together we stole a plant from a campus building. She’s earned these revelations. By contrast, Anna was studying the Talmud and had showered. Already, she was winning at this crazy game called life and she knew it. “I think they are the terry cloth nail in your Midwestern mom coffin.”
My hair was unwashed and cropped in a mom haircut. Instead of foundation I was wearing tinted moisturizer (“It’s easier to apply!” The mom website assured me). The night before I had made what I like to call “White People Enchiladas.” Basically, cans of cream of something soup, cheese and chicken. Anna was right.
“WHAT HAVE I DONE?!”
I looked back on the long road to slobdom that had been forged in pregnancy, with my love of my black, knit maternity pants, then my quest for yoga pants, because they were easy on the FUPA. Now here I was, 29 and already succumb to the fate of Pajama Jeans. Was there anywhere else to go? Hell? Kmart? Was I doomed to die facedown in a pile of hotdish?!
Anna had me check my cupboards. I didn’t own Jello or French fried onions. I had a bag of dried apricots. All was not lost.
That’s the thing about pants, isn’t it? They reveal your deepest nature in a way that no other item of clothing does. I hopped into the shower and changed. My Pajama Jeans are neatly folded in my drawer, they were after all, very comfortable. And maybe if I wore them with heels like the girl in the commercial…
Shout out to the regulators: While I did receive a free pair of sexy Pajama Jeans, these opinions are my own and I may or may not be wearing them now as I type this.