Pajamas.
Just the word alone conjures up a swell of emotions and my dinner half way up my esophagus.
I’ve never been a fan of pajamas. The idea of them, so precise. So uniform and matching. So official.
I’m wearing pajamas. It’s official. I’m off to bed!
No possible way I’m going for a walk or an improptu dance party.
What do you wear to bed then, Laur?
Are you one of those people that enjoys a slumber in the buff?
NO!
Quite the contrary. I have to wear something.
Except when I was in Bali and staying at the Ritz Carlton. You bet your butt, pun intended that my bod was going to be caressed by gagillion thread count sheets for eight hours per night.
Here on this side of the world, I remain clothed at most times.
My bedtime attire usually includes some of the following: men’s underwear, old college sweatshirts, cut off t-shirts or shorts and my favorite, favorite thing to wear, medical scrubs.
I just love getting the mail while wearing them. None of my neighbors know me so if they pop their head out whilst I’m passing by to pick up the post, they might think I just finished the overnight shift. Whose lives did I save? They’d think. Who died under my watch?
Hmmm.
Let ‘em ponder.

Pajamas.
If you asked my family to mentally google the three words, Laurie, Christmas and Pajamas, they would all have to sit themselves down to control wetting themselves as Christmas in my house, was Laurie’s pajama parade.
For years, pajamas were nothing more than Santa’s joke on the three of us. My two sisters and I would look at the soft wrapped packages and know instantly that they were the socks, Carter’s underpants or pajamas from JC Penneys or Burlington. Did Santa really think we counted THESE as presents? We’d keep these packages in the corner of the room as the last things to open and go straight to unwrapping the Cabage Patch Kids. We knew nothing could follow that act so the pajamas remained an afterthought. They were quickly forgotten by minutes of pleasure with our strangely named children, Mason Kendal and Lotta Jacinda, followed by a gorge fest of cheese, turnips, turkey and pie.
Not all at the same time.
We never liked getting pajamas.
When Santa stopped visiting our house because my sister’s and I became ‘of age,' the pajamas never stopped coming.
And as we grew older the pajamas became more and more obscene. Traffic stopping patterns and colors, off the wall styles, designs and fabrics that someone small girl in Malaysia actually sat down and sowed for us folks in the US, kept showing up year after year after year.
She’s still giggling in the corner of her mansion.
The intricacies of these pajamas were ridiculous and impossible to imagine physically on body.
And the show began.
Jazz hands and all, I would descend the staircase in
school bus yellow leggings donned with wiggly red smiley faces. This would be paired with cropped black t-shirts wide enough to upholster a love seat, slippers the size of the cast of ‘Friends’.
I’d be tripping and they’d be laughing and my job was done.
Perhaps it was my mother age or more appropriately, her humor that made each Christmas sing violently of nighttime wardrobe catastrophes. No matter what fashion plate you’d mix on my bottom or top half, I always looked out of proportion and much like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloon,
as its deflating,
at the end of the parade.
Sadly sagging down Broadway in desperate need of Botox.
I loved my roles as 'Strike Up the Band' Barney or Pikachu, but I never wore the pajamas my mother or Santa brought me. Never.
I’d be too frightened.
And so here I am, in my thirties, sitting and writing my blog, wearing the most delightful pair of pajamas I’ve ever seen. There were a gift from a dear friend sent from Pajamagram, a lovely little idea for gift giving.
I’m having surgery tomorrow and my friend thought a nice pair of pajamas would be a sweet recoup gift. Of course a swimming size medium was also a good idea as I like my pj’s to fit bigger or more appropriately, I like to feel small in my pj’s.

Is their anything else you can do instead of surgery?
Many of my friends asked this. As if I, of all people, wouldn’t have exhausted my time, bank account and body with alternative ways of healing.
I’m a big supporter of the eastern way of healing. It’s supported me when I’ve been out of balance. Currently, I’m a lot out of balance and if I take one more herb, I'd be a pizza.
I would never elect to turn my body over to a machine to make me breathe or have my heart beat. Ok, that’s a little dramatic.
I’m putting a lot of pressure on this surgery, like I’m going to have a tumor removed.
It’s not the case. It’s an out patient, common procedure women undergo in order to be healthy.
So there.
I just don’t like the idea of doing it.
And I don’t like the idea or suggestions from others that there must be another way.
I understand the worry but I’ve been living worry, which can create even more illness. Don’t ask me if I’ve tried acupuncture. I love my acupuncturist and he has been a huge part of the balancing and healing process.
Like life, there is not always one clear answer to a problem and not just one way to cure the problem. I don’t expect surgery to be the answer to why the sky is blue but it is certainly going to help me feel like a healthier person. My acupuncturist will help too. Meditating will help too. And nice pajamas, that makes it so much easier to get through.
Pale blue polka dots, pink trim, drawstring waist, cropped top, lush cotton.
Not too long, not too short. Just right.
How could a friend get it right and Santa miss every year? He didn't know me at all!
This week, I get over two fears, goin’ under and wearing pajamas.
This is turning out to be a good week.
I’ll see you on the other side.