Oh Blasphemous Clothing!

I did something last night when I went to bed that is very, very rare for me. It's not something I do regularly — least, not for many, many years, even though I did it a few weeks ago, too. What blasphemous act, pray tell, did I engage in? I wore pajamas to bed. *Shock!*Gasp!*Horror!*

I'm not really a wear-clothes-to-bed type. Not in the slightest. If I'm drunk and crashing at a friends house, sure, I'll stay fully clothed and disappear into the soft cushioning of the couch. But that's real, "every day" clothing. I would never climb into my own bed in jeans and a tshirt, that'd just be weird. Pajamas are different. I've had an ongoing battle with pajamas since I was little. Especially nightgowns, I hate those things. If it's a restless night of sleep, I'm constantly turning and in a few hours' time, I've mummified myself in a tightly wound cotton tube. It's like being forced into strict bondage when you're PMS'ing (i.e. whiney bitchfest) and have to pee badly. And that's not my gig. So, nekkid it is.

Just out of curiosity, I wonder what portion of the United States population sleeps naked. Do religious freaks sleep naked too, or is their nakedness the blasphemous offender and not the pajamas? I'd investigate, but, you know, those religious zealot types tend not to associate with depraved sex bloggers such as myself.

Okay, so why did I wear pajamas to bed? I was cold. Here's the thing: shiny fabrics that look pretty and feel soft and slick on naked skin, well, they get cold. If you cover your bed in black Egyptian cotton/silk blend sheets with an insanely high thread count for a 21 year old (for example), those sheets get cold (compared to icky nasty tshirt material sheets ::shudder::). And as I found my way to bed last night I was positively shivering, even after yet another cup of hot chocolate. I fixed my top blanket then added another, a smaller down-filled thing, and climbed in. I didn't even think about the fact that I was still pajama-clad until I was covered, and at that point, I really didn't care. And I think I pretty much zonked out the moment my head was down. In fact, I don't think I had any issues with getting tangled up. Possibly because the slickness of my pajamas — black satin, mon amie — counteracts the slickness of my sheets in such a way that allows me to just glide along underneath.

So why do I even own such lovely pajamas if I'm not wearing them to bed, and if I have no partner to visually enjoy them? Because I'm horribly lazy, and spend most of my day in pajamas if I'm not going anywhere. I simply can't uphold the FlyLady standard of getting dressed everyday down to my lace-up shoes. I'm too laid-back for that. I have a variety of pajamas, they're nice pajamas too, and only a few have ever been worn to actually sleep in. It's not a habit I want to get into, wearing pajamas to bed, but it was good to know that for at least one night, pajamas worked out okay. Although yaknow, if I did have a partner to *ahem* visually enjoy them, I certainly wouldn't ever need to wear them to bed again, would I?