I don’t buy myself pajamas.
I don’t buy myself pajamas. I sleep in Christmas ones from 2021 and a maternity nightdress several years old.
This year I planned my own birthday, BottleRock in Napa, with the friend who was my maid of honor a long time ago.
A month later, Amy messaged. She had been holding my gift and wanted to bring it by. She said it had been a hard couple of months. I told her she didn’t need to get me anything.
She brought it anyway.
I put it in the trunk of my car and left it there for a couple days, still wrapped, with the card taped to the top.
What finally moved me was remembering that I hadn’t thanked her. A thank-you has a clock on it. I went out to the car and brought it inside.
Cotton pajamas from Nordstrom. A pattern I liked immediately. Loose and light, the kind of fabric that doesn’t insist on holding its shape.
The card said they would be comfortable after a shower or a bath.
I read it twice.
Then I showered, because that was what the card said to do.
I put the bottoms on and sent her a photograph of me wearing them at my laptop.
She had noticed something I had never said aloud: that I needed something softer to inhabit at the end of the day.