There was a time when my expectations far exceed my reality. As a child of the 70’s, I was raised with the expectation that the future would be far out and futuristic. Somewhere along the line of time future became present. I grew up and stopped expecting to be entertained by the world. Life without expectations is surprisingly easy, it turns out. I am now content to sit quietly and watch TV shows in which skeevy singers perform nearly discernible music while Jennifer Lopez weeps and Steven Tyler removes his pants. He’s Steven Tyler. There doesn’t have to be a reason. Life without massive expectations of external fulfillment means that I can wear my pajamas everywhere. Thank you, brave new world, for that.
There was a time when I’d see people in the supermarket or the movies in pajamas and I’d want to rattle their brain pans and shout “Don’t you even care about your appearance?” These days I don’t get so uptight. I now go out in p.j.’s. Retailers don’t even call the apparel pajamas any more. Now the clothes are referred to as lounge wear. Saying lounge wear evokes the image of a fun place to be with a clubby, convivial atmosphere. The lights are low, the music is tolerable. We’ve eaten entire tins of Altoids because lounge wear clad party goers have told us about the buzz that comes from breath mints. Lounge wear fits right into this ethic. We work hard and then lounge harder. If we call lounge wear, the uniform of lost expectations, pajamas then we’ve given in to the reality that we can’t be bothered to put on real clothes. I do harbor one expectation for the future that won’t go away, though. When the world ends I’d like to be wearing clean pajamas at least. It’s just good manners