An open letter to pajamas

Pajamas, I don't own you. Why? Because I'm not ten years old. Back in the heady days of 1981, when I was young and pajama-clad, superheroes and cartoon characters covered my walls and the clothes in which I slept. They marched up my arms, struck poses on my chest, flew down my legs. But adults shouldn't wear you. We're not so invested in role models that we need to embroider our sleep with them. Anyway, doesn't it seem odd that we have an entire outfit dedicated to sleep? Why are we dressing up to lay in a darkened room and drool for eight hours? It seems like the one occasion where we can get away with nudity.

One thing you're good for, pajamas: night time emergencies. Fires, floods, a knock on the door - that's when you shine. Don't worry, I'm here and I'm all over you, you say, and when you're old and rocking the adult diapers, I'll be on you all day. You'll probably die in me.

You play on our fears, pajamas. Without them we would have no need for you. I'll tell you what: when I retire, I'll give you another shot.