It’s day 2 of 2016. Unlike many who met the day with spanking new outfits and freshly fluffed optimism, I spent day 1 in my pajamas, transitioning into the new year with a touch of internal friction. The night before was fitful at best; there were fireworks too close to my once idyllic and quiet home (yes, I’m one of the weirdos who enjoys meeting the New Year quietly). There was haze where once was clear, unsullied sky. I did not have a peaceful sleep and woke up feeling sluggish and unenthusiastic. The only bright thing ahead were my pink polka dot pajamas. So I stayed in them. All day.
Part of me kept playing back a voice from my childhood that said “if you stay in your pajamas, you will rot in them for all of 2016”, but I’ve reached a point in my life where I can hear it, wink at it, and get on with what I choose, despite its persistent looping. I was having a pajama kind of day and nothing would make me struggle against it. The boys were still away and I had the house to myself, so it was clear what I had to do.