As a child, I recall having a recurring dream in which I
found myself out in public dressed in only my pajamas. I always woke up in a state of panic from
that dream, but greatly relieved that it wasn’t reality. Nowadays, colorful pj’s seem to be the
garment of choice for many young women and girls as they go about their daily
business.
I see them in the mall, strolling down the street, and
even pushing shopping carts through the supermarket wearing bright flannel
pajama pants decorated with sheep, clouds, hearts, teddy bears and the like. The accompanying little tank tops often leave
little to the imagination, yet no one seems shocked or offended at the sight of
people out in public in their nightwear.
Apparently, none of them ever suffered from nocturnal embarrassment as I
did.
Several weeks ago, I was all ready for bed when my
husband reminded me that we had planned to fill up both vehicles in
anticipation of a significant jump in gasoline prices the next morning. Oh, darn, now I have to change my clothes, I
thought. But, then, a little devil on my
shoulder whispered, “Why bother? No
one’s going to know what you’re wearing when you’re just sitting in the
car.” So, I listened to the imp and headed
for the gas station in my navy polka dot pajamas.
There was a bit of a line-up at the pumps but I didn’t
really mind as I was happily singing along at the top of my lungs to a catchy
tune from the past on satellite radio.
Can’t beat that old time rock ‘n roll.
“Fill ‘er up,” I said to the attendant when my turn finally came. Then it dawned on me that I didn’t have any
cash in my purse, so I would have to get out of the vehicle to use my debit
card – in my pajamas. Crap!
Feeling mortified, I opened the car door, put one foot
out and noticed that it was encased in a fluffy pink slipper. Since it wasn’t likely that I could speed
away without paying, I swallowed my pride and stepped outside the safe confines
of my car into the glaring headlights of other vehicles in the line-up. Unlike the big city where you pay at the
pump, here consumers have to walk to a little kiosk on the gas station grounds
to pay for their purchase. Those pink
slippers felt like concrete boots and the white polka dots on my pajamas
reflected glare as if they were illuminated by neon bulbs. It was the longest 20 foot walk of my
life.
Now that I’m sufficiently recovered from the experience
of exhibitionism, I can finally talk about it.
At least I’ve discovered that dreams really do come true. Pity!
