If I were to someday write a character that had to give a final first impression of misery, I would paint the image of a girl in her mid-twenties, lazing around in her parents’ house for days on end in a series of pink pajamas from her childhood. Pajamas have always made me think of vulnerability and weakness, probably thanks to that scene in You’ve Got Mail where Meg Ryan gets sick and Tom Hanks visits her. The character Kathleen is clad only in her pajamas, her entire apartment an obviously untended wreck of soggy tissues and misplaced soup bowls. Ever since, I’ve come to equate pajamas with the most unguarded, most secret moments of one’s life. These are the bits of me I’d rather not have people see.
The pajamas that have been left in my old cabinet are mostly pink, because, like most parents, mine adhered to the sexist tradition of giving blue stuff to boys and pink stuff to girls. The set I’m wearing right now are covered with the image of a fluffy creature that is a cross between a dog with floppy ears and a sheep that has learned to school its facial expressions. I’ve owned these pajamas for more than ten years, and to this day, I am not sure what to feel about still being able to fit into them. In a way I take offense that I have not outgrown my old things. Somehow it makes me think that I have not at all grown, whether in body or in mind.
Negativity aside, there are perks to freeloading in my parent’s house. My clothes are always clean and so are my surroundings. When I’m hungry all I have to do is open the refrigerator and experiment with a few ingredients. I have dependable wifi and day-long television at my disposal, and even though the electricity is cut off on a daily basis for hours on end, I can’t complain. I’ve been reunited with my Harry Potter book collection. Life is peaceful, and peaceful is good, even when it doesn’t equate to satisfying.
Am hoping you are faring better on your end.