I think I was about forty-seven before I discovered pajama bottoms. I knew they existed. I simply hadn’t understood that they represented a meaningful improvement in my own living conditions.
Around the house, I was a gray sweatpants guy. For sleeping, tighty-whities. Apparently, I considered those two options sufficient research into personal comfort. My poor wife.
The sweatpants were comfortable enough until summer, when they became considerably more insulation than the assignment required. I was trying to relax around the house, not sweat off weight for a wrestling match. Then I tried pajama bottoms and discovered that somebody had already solved this problem. A really long time ago!
They were light, comfortable, and cozy without making me feel bundled up. I could putter around the house, make coffee, settle into a chair, and get back up because whatever I wanted was inevitably in the other room. All the freedom I appreciated in sweatpants, with considerably less enthusiasm for retaining heat.
This seemed like information I could have (or should have) used earlier.
A Decade Between Breakthroughs
You might think that discovery would have encouraged me to investigate other available comforts. You would be giving me way too much credit. It took approximately another decade before my lovely wife bought me a pair of slippers.
I was fifty-seven.
They’re a rough-out leather sort of arrangement, with sheepskin inside and a little sole underneath. They slip on but surround my feet more like a full shoe, and I’ve worn them every stinking day. Around the house, around the campsite, just around. I absolutely love my slippers.
At some point, enthusiasm stops being a review and becomes a declaration. This is a declaration.
One reason for my conversion deserves explaining to anyone unfamiliar with goatheads. These are the sharp, miserable little burrs that occasionally arrive indoors courtesy of the dogs. You may overlook one on the floor during the day, but your bare foot will locate it with remarkable precision during a nighttime trip to the bathroom.
There you are, half asleep, attempting a simple household journey. One misplaced step later, you are considerably more awake and have a few observations about the situation.
My slippers have spared me those encounters for over 2 years now. I slip them on, go do... whatever, return to bed, and remove them—a modest routine that has substantially improved relations between my feet and the floor. I’m describing my own pair and experience, of course. A soft slipper with a thin bottom might offer a goathead little more than encouragement.
The dogs continue bringing the outside indoors. At least I now have footwear for the negotiations.
The Comfort Travels
The slippers also come camping, where I appreciate them all over again. There is considerable pleasure in taking your boots off after a day on your feet and slipping into something comfortable. My pair has enough of a sole for the ordinary puttering around camp I use them for, and when my feet are tired, that change feels particularly good.
I also like leaving dirty boots at the door instead of carrying their contents through the living space. Of course, slippers that have been wandering around a campsite still need their soles checked before coming inside. Calling something a slipper does not exempt it from collecting dirt.
None of this requires a particular brand. These happen to fit my feet and suit the way I use them. That’s the extent of my purchasing philosophy on the subject, apart from wishing I’d discovered them sooner.
WAY sooner.
Between the slippers and the pajama bottoms, I’ve developed a considerable appreciation for clothes that make relaxing easier. At home or sitting around camp, I’m delighted with the arrangement. I understand why people become attached to comfortable things they use every day. I have become one of those people, and apparently I have quite a bit to say about it.
There Is Still an Occasion to Dress For
My enthusiasm does have limits. I still get dressed before going to Walmart or boarding an airplane. Seeing someone out in pajama bottoms may prompt a private grumpy-old-man opinion, although I now understand the comfort argument considerably better than I once did.
At camp, what I wear still needs to suit what I’m doing. If the next job calls for boots, protection, or different layers, I change. Slippers are excellent for my nighttime bathroom expedition. For splitting firewood, I’ll put my boots back on and dress for the work. Being comfortable includes recognizing when it’s time to wear something else.
I am, however, beginning to understand the concept of getting dressed for bed. You spend the day in clothes, take those off, and then put on a special, more comfortable set for sleeping. A full set of pajamas may yet be in my future. Considering how long it took me to investigate the bottoms, I should probably allow myself some time. For now, a t-shirt will have to do.
When I mentioned all this to my wife, the conversation took an unfortunate turn toward dressing gowns and smoking jackets. Apparently, the progression from pajama bottoms to slippers ends with me announcing, “I shall be taking coffee in the library.”
The library would be the living room.
One of the dogs would have my chair.
I don’t think I could do the dressing gown. For one thing, I’d have to get different slippers. Mine say, “I might step outside with the dogs.” The other kind say, “There’s been a murder in the coach house, with a candlestick, and I’ve rung the inspector.”
I’m comfortable with my current level of unsophistication. Wine is still gross.
Something Worth Enjoying
Comfort belongs in everyday readiness, I think. We spend enough time discussing how to manage difficult days; it’s worth noticing what makes an ordinary one even more pleasant. For me, that includes pajama bottoms, familiar slippers beside the bed, and something comfortable for tired feet at camp. Small changes, used often.
I should have tried them years earlier. Instead, I carried on with what I was accustomed to until something better finally found its way into my routine. There wasn’t anything especially complicated about the discovery. My wife gave me something, I tried it, and I wondered why I’d waited so long.
What simple comfort did you discover embarrassingly late? Perhaps there’s something you now use every day that you once dismissed, overlooked, or simply never thought to try.
I’d love to hear your story. Write to hello@everydayready.life.
Mine arrived in stages: pajama bottoms around forty-seven, slippers at fifty-seven. I’m apparently on a ten-year development schedule.
We’ll see what happens at sixty-seven. But I’m making no commitments about the dressing gown.