threadbare.

Photo by Trym Nilsen on Unsplash

My favorite pajama pants are nearing the end of their life. I discovered a series of small holes along the seam of the crotch and it made me a bit sad. I’ve had these sweats for several years and I’m not quite ready to part ways with them yet.

When I first bought them, they were so soft. The fleece lining was fuzzy and felt like it was wrapping my legs in a hug. The hem was just the right length for my long legs, something that is an elusive requirement for any pair of pajama bottoms I buy. For the first few washes, I worried that they would shrink just enough for me to hate them and have them relegated to the reject pile.

They didn’t.

They became my go-to comfort clothing. Something that I put on after returning home from a long day at work. Something that I slipped into when I was staying the night at my boyfriend’s house and we were snuggling on the couch. Something that I wore to the grocery store, not caring if someone I knew would see my slovenly appearance. Something that I would wear all weekend long, slipping them off only for a shower, just to pull them back on again when I was finished. 

They traveled with me on my many trips for work. They became that portable item that allowed me to bring my routine from home to practice while I was away. No matter what hotel I was sleeping in that week, I had the amenity of my favorite comfort with me. When I slipped into them before I made my morning coffee, they were the familiar thing when I was surrounded by strange. 

On laundry day, they are always in the last load so that I don’t have to go too long without them. The feeling of slipping them on again, right out of the dryer is incredible. The warmth of the fabric delights my whole body and brings an indescribable pleasure to me.

As the years have worn on, so have my pants. The soft lining has pilled, but the tiny balls of matted fuzz are no less cozy than they were in their prime. They no longer provide the physical warmth they once did, but the emotional warmth continues to grow. The fabric has gotten thinner, as Alissa pointed out to me the other day when she noted she could see my underwear through them.

I guess my pants are no longer suitable to wear in public.

This isn’t the first pair of pajama pants I’ve worn until they literally fell apart. I had a pair in college that lasted me long after I turned in the key card to my dorm room. I even tried to salvage parts of them to sew into a quilt I was working on.

I guess I have a hard time letting go when I’m attached.

There’s a sense of beauty that comes with loving an item of clothing so intimately. It becomes a part of you in a way that’s unexplainable. The familiarity and comfort that something so simple can bring is simply amazing to me.

I’m not yet ready to part with my pajama pants. I have a feeling that they will be ready to part with me before that happens anyway.

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