Isn’t that an amazing title? I wish I had thought of it. I’m reading Matthew Zapruder’s book of poetry The Pajamaist and it’s brilliant. I’m so inspired that I have been practicing being a pajamaist. What is a pajamaist, you may ask. I’ve come to realize that’s a very personal question and I can only answer for myself. A pajamaist is somebody who sits around in their pajamas (problem number 1–I have no pajamas, just an odd assortment of mismatched ancient t-shirts and sweat pants) who thinks pajama thoughts (think I’d like some popcorn, think I’d like some chocolate milk, what’s wrong with me why don’t I have a decent pair of pajamas I keep going to the store, to the pajama department and I say to myself, now is the time to buy some pajamas but I never do and now my procrastination has led to my inability to be a pajamaist and I have only myself to blame.).
“You’re driving me to school in that?” my son sometimes asks in the morning.
“These are not pajamas,” I tell him.
“You wore them to bed,” he says.
“Yes, but they’re not matched. Pajamas are matched.”
“Please don’t get out of the car,” he says.
“Fine,” I say.
The point is. The Pajamaist. Read it.