The first time I saw an ad for PajamaJeans, I was vegging out on the couch with one of my best friends. When the commercial ended, she looked at me incredulously and said, “That was a joke, right?”
I placed my hand over my heart and said, “I certainly hope not!”
Never before had I seen a product designed with me specifically in mind. It was as if someone had hired a private investigator to leaf through my diaries and rifle through my closets. Then that PI married a psychotherapist, who unraveled the innermost workings of my subconscious desires, fears and motivations. And when the private investigator and psychotherapist made sweet love, they gave birth to my beloved PajamaJeans.
The PajamaJeans were my new must-have. I thought about them constantly. Thought about the adventures we would go on — trips to the park, maybe a game of basketball followed by some much-deserved sprawling out on the couch or snuggling under the covers. I thought about taking them for a ride on my imaginary motorcycle, taking them camping, sleeping under the stars and then having a nice tumble at the laundromat. These weren’t just pajamas. They weren’t just jeans. They were PajamaJeans, damn it. Soul mate pants, if you ask me.
Sure, I’d had PajamaJeans-esque experiences in my past. There was a time when I wore pajama bottoms out of the house nearly every day. Those years were called high school. And yeah, I also went through a phase in which I passed out regularly in my jeans. Those years were called college. But in neither of those instances did I have permission to be so unabashedly lazy and slovenly and simultaneously socially acceptable. PajamaJeans had a national commercial, for goodness’ sake! Twelve million buyers can’t be wrong! OK, I have no idea how many people have bought PajamaJeans, but it must be enough to keep those commercials on my television nightly, taunting me, seducing me.
So when my guy surprised me with a baby-blue package, I was over the moon. It was more beautiful than a Tiffany-blue box. It was PajamaJeans-blue! Inside were a pair of medium PajamaJeans and a complimentary T-shirt.
I ran to try them on, ready to wear them for the day. Ready to wear them for life! I could have cried; I was brimming with so much excitement.
As one can assume, given such joyful anticipation, the pain that welled up in my heart and at the back of my throat when the pants of my dreams did not fit is too hard to put into words.
I always have been tall and slender. I’m not a giant, but my body basically goes head, shoulders, legs, feet. I skip the torso altogether. My junior-high years were spent in high-water pants, long before they were popular. And the PajamaJeans brought back a flood of painful childhood memories. The PajamaJeans that had stolen my heart could barely cover my butt, snagged at the crotch and ending mid-shin. I could almost hear the kids calling out, “Katiedid Long Legs. Spider Girl.”
My dreams of a mutual tumble at the laundromat came to an abrupt and devastating halt. I never would get to wear the PajamaJeans shopping or become that mom-on-the-go as the commercial advertised. Now I know how people who finish in fourth place at the Olympics feel: You come so close to the dream you can taste it, and then cruelly, unfairly, it is taken from you.
I sent my would-be soul mate pants back to their manufacturer. I thought about trying a bigger size, but my fear of a second round of disappointment was too great.
Maybe I will use the money I was refunded to buy a Forever Lazy. The folks in those commercials always look pretty happy, tailgating before the game or reading a book by the fire. A sleeved blanket that zips couldn’t possibly let me down like the PajamaJeans, could it? Then again, maybe I need to give my heart a moment to heal before looking for a replacement to my first love. Everything in its time. Everything in its time.