Last Rites of the Pajama Pants

Last Rites of the Pajama Pants


So, 2020 has been a fun year. If aliens showed up just to tell us Earth is now the dumping grounds for their version of the Atari E.T. games, it really wouldn’t feel out of place. None in my household has felt the sting of 2020 like my pajamas. Poor things. I wrote an ode to the them for my 4th Demonetized video. Enjoy the watch or read … or both.

I still remember the day he bought me from the store. I was one of the luckiest pieces of apparel around that day. “Why the heck would he choose your ugly grey plaid mug?” one of the Tommy Hilfiger pajama pants complained. I wanted to yell back, “Cause no one sensible wants to pay $50 to see “Tommy Hilfiger” stamped everywhere you look!” But, I took the high road. It would have done no good to remind that snooty set of jammies that he was destined for a Frat House. Some fates are best not known so you can enjoy life in the moment.

My new life was amazing. Late nights lounging around with wine and a book. Weekend mornings listening to a podcast while my owner was drinking coffee. I was used sparingly and with care, and washed almost as frequently as I was worn. I was that more coveted piece of clothing for his happiest moments. Ah, the good times. The best of times.

And then, 2020 happened. I don’t even know if he realizes he has other pants anymore. All day, every day, I am with him. I feel like my very fabric has fused with the leather of his computer desk chair. I’m thrown casually on the bathroom floor now, more times than I can count. He doesn’t even take me off to walk his dog in the rain. I don’t even get the decency to be hung up in the closet before he goes to sleep. Thrown to the floor at night and violently awoken in the mornings over and over and over and over; day in and day out. I get no rest of my own. Life has become a living hell. Oh, Tommy. What a fool I was.

Please, dear Lord. Let me die. And with my dying breath, I curse him to never achieve 1600 rating.

– A Once Happy Pair of PJs