Last weekend I posted on Facebook that I stay in my pajamas all day on Sundays, unless I have to go out (not including trips to Walmart, because really, what’s the point of getting dressed just to go to Walmart?). I also mentioned that I sleep in SpongeBob flannel pajama pants and a tattered UCLA sweat shirt that I bought when I was in graduate school.

I got a lot of comments on that post, but the most interesting one came to me as a private message from an old college friend. He was a roommate I had when I was an undergrad at UC Berkeley. My junior year I lived in a big old house on the southeast corner of College Avenue and Durant, and shared it with three guys. We all had our own rooms, but had to share two bathrooms. Needless to say, this situation was not optimal for me. By spring the mound of dirty towels in the bathroom had turned into an organism that should’ve paid rent, plus I got tired of being the only one who changed the toilet paper roll.

Choose Your Battles

Anyway, my old friend messaged me asking, “After all these years you STILL loaf around the house in flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt? Please don’t tell me at your age you sleep in that stuff, too. Have you not evolved? #VictoriasSecret”

Okay, I see where he’s going with this. Back in college he dated some pretty hot babes who would spend the night at our place, only to prance around the next morning in silk camisoles that barely contained their plush and perky accoutrements. Being tall and skinny myself, it was a little intimidating to stand next to one of these hotties as she daintily chowed down on the Baskin and Robbins Jamoca Almond Fudge left over from a munchies run the night before. (Yeah, I’d love to see that chick’s figure now.) I knew better than to compete in a category I could never win. Oh sure, I’d take her on if she challenged me to a game of chess, dared me to factor polynomials, or threw down a contest to see who could find the area under a curve faster. But given these young ladies could barely conjugate verbs I didn’t think we’d get to face off in my wheelhouse any time soon.

Which meant skimpy, lacy, plunging neckline lingerie did not live in my underwear drawer.

A Tale of Two Pajamas

Back then I was all about comfort. But even so I wasn’t a complete dweeb. When I went out I got all tarted up in skin-tight pants and F$#@ Me boots just like every other horny college coed. But when I was in for the night I let it all hang out. Literally. That meant donning loose, relaxing clothing that defied shape. Actually back then my entire body defied shape, so it was a good fit.

But as I inched my way into my twenties after college, I realized I had to up my game when it came to nocturnal couture. My social life with men occasionally extended to the bedroom. And when it was time to “slip into something more comfortable,” they weren’t all that impressed when I’d emerge from my walk-in closet wearing threads you’d typically throw on to change the oil in your car. Oh, yeah. That’s sexy. Suddenly they remembered important meetings they had to get up early for and left.

From Flannel Pajama Pants to…

So off I went to Victoria’s Secret, where a cute, blond salesgirl loaded me up with nighties, teddies, satin pajamas, and panties that contained less fabric than an upholstered seat in a Hot Wheels car. I swear I flossed my teeth with string wider than what passed for underwear in the pink bag of goodies Lady Godiva sent home with me. When I questioned the practicality of these garments, she said that they’d make me feel “pretty” and that I’d want to sleep in them every night regardless of the circumstances.

So I tried. And you know what I discovered? Being hermetically sealed in lingerie is NOT comfortable. On the contrary, it’s an underwear torture chamber full of itchy lace, binding Spandex, bumpy hooks, and don’t EVEN get me started on the underwires in those “corset-y” little numbers. Sleep in that stuff? Maybe when I’m dead. Maybe.

However, I will say this: All that crap does makes your body look amazing. So if I’m lucky enough to be seen in it, the optical illusion is impressive. Especially in dim lighting. But what good is it if it prevents me from breathing or gives me a wedgie every time I roll over on my left side. (And why only my left side?)

All through my 20’s and 30’s I really tried to make friends with sexy lingerie. But by the time I hit my 40’s I was just so tired of wrestling with my sleepwear that one night in a sleep-deprived rage I tore off the silk boy shorts and baby doll tank top and replaced them with sweat pants and a gansta hoodie. True, I looked like I was ready to rob a liquor store, but now I could finally get some sleep without having to wake every hour to pull my underwear out of my crack.

So yes, Steve (there, I just outted you, buddy), even though I took a long side trip down Sexy Satin Negligee Lane since you and I lived together, I eventually wound up back on Practical Pajama Avenue. But that’s okay, I’m doing just fine there. I don’t need any bedtime costumes to get my point across. Because I’ll have you know, sir, even at my age, I can totally rock flannel jammies like nobody’s business.

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Stacy Dymalski is an award winning keynote speaker and stand-up comic who gave up the glamorous life of coach travel, smokey comedy clubs, and heckling drunks for the glamourous life of raising kids (who happen to be bigger hecklers than the drunks). This blog is her new stage. For more of Stacy’s comedy check out her book Confessions of a Band Geek Mom available in bookstores and on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.