For example, one wintry day in college I was about to get dressed for my first class of the day when it suddenly struck me exactly how comfortable my pajamas really were. I mean like SO MUCH more comfortable than my regular pants! Unfortunately, I allowed this thought to percolate in my mind for so long that I eventually convinced myself that, in fact, pajama bottoms were EXACTLY the same as pants. I mean, they have a waist and two legs, right? Let's be real, those are ALMOST ALL the components of pants right there!
It was this logic that led me to spend several years making regular public appearances wearing flannel pajama tops and bottoms as sportswear separates. I want to say, for the record, that this was done without a smidge of irony and with a belief in the deepest part of my soul that I was pulling the whole look off.
Then Vincent "the chin" Gigante ruined the whole thing for me. Vincent was a NYC-based gentleman who had decided to feign madness in an attempt to cover up the fact that he was running one of the city's predominant crime families. How did he approach the problem of simply yet absolutely conveying faux mania to the masses, you ask? Well, let's look at Mr. Gigante's wikipedia entry, shall we?
"Gigante was officially recognized as the most powerful crime boss in the United States. Dubbed "The Oddfather" and "The Enigma in the Bathrobe" by the press, Gigante often wandered the streets of Greenwich Village in his pajamas and slippers, mumbling incoherently to himself."
So, as it turned out, my look wasn't so much saying to people, "I'm a maverick who has chosen to put a premium on personal comfort," but rather, "I am clinically insane, can't you tell by the fact that I'm wearing pajamas in public?"
All of this to say that perhaps I am a person who should be giving fashion advice to exactly no one. But sometimes, I can't help myself. Especially when it comes to my beloved husband.
Now, for the most part, David is a very reasonable dresser. He sticks mostly to button-down shirts with a jacket for work and t-shirts and jeans on the weekend. Still, there are three major fronts on which David and I remain locked in a war of wills, and they are as follows:
1. Hair length (I want it shorter; he can't be bothered to get it cut)
2. Facial hair (It annoys me; he sometimes can't be bothered to shave)
3. Sunglasses (I despise the only pair he owns; he can't be bothered to buy a new pair)
Our fashion stalemate remained the status quo for several months until I found an unlikely ally this week in my little pal Snoodie. It happened as our entire family sat gathered in front of the TV in rapt attention, joyously watching as the final Chilean miner was freed.
As that last pod opened and the 33rd man, the mine foreman, stepped forth, Snoodie looked towards the television, took in the amazing sight, and then pointed enthusiastically at the screen before shouting:
Even my husband has to admit that when one's look is reminiscent of a man who has been trapped beneath the earth for 69 days it might be time to make a change.
For those keeping score - that's one in Mommy and Snoodie's column.