An Ode to Pajamas

Here’s the plan. This will be my last column on being sick. I am 93% certain, though I cannot be held responsible for my brain’s allocation of that final 7%. An entire month has gone by. My allergies became severe allergies became bronchitis became bacterial pneumonia. I seem to be on the mend, though recovery from pneumonia is way more difficult than I imagined. There are 2 types of days at this point. There are days where I am up and about, albeit more slowly. Then, there are days where I don’t understand why my eyes refuse to open and I find myself dozing in the oddest places, like while trying to pen this article. I read that detritus (waste produced by decomposition) takes a long time to clear from the lungs. Yep, little pieces of your lungs die and, coupled with the fluids and mucous that raced to that area to “help” things clear, leave you with lung sludge. It’s going to take you a little minute to feel better. I felt so bad this week that I went back to the doctor in my pajamas. Now, today’s kids go pretty much everywhere in pjs. But, I am Gen X. We were raised by mothers who drank TAB and smoked menthol cigarettes as they rolled our hair around orange juice cans for volume. We were forced to live outside between the hours of 9 am to 5 pm, like feral critters. At a moment’s notice, we would be voluntold to stand for hours on end, fingers pinching the foil on the end of the television antenna. We knew survival meant being prepared for anything.

My mom was a firm believer in a full face of makeup before going out in public. She grew up in the 50s, when all little girls aspired to be June Cleaver on Leave it to Beaver, vacuuming patterns into the shag carpet wearing lipstick and pearls. This was the era where Hollywood starlets were discovered perching on soda shop stools or working in secretarial pools. The future could knock at any moment. You’d better be ready. I remember summer days spent in our rural route home. Momma had a once-a-week rule for going to town. It was the highlight of my week. We would do everything: grab groceries, visit my grandmother at the pharmacy where she worked, breeze through the meat market, and maybe even do some window shopping at Meyer’s Department Store. I would be anxious to leave. My mother would say the same thing each week. “Make sure you’re ready. As soon as I put my face on, we’ll go.” Her main concern was her thin eyebrows. Why do alternate generations decide that women’s eyebrows can only be single hairs in a comma shape? I would watch her pencil her eyebrows in with a light brown Max Factor pencil, followed by this statement. “There, now I can’t scare anyone.” Secretly, I am still this way. I can’t put my best foot forward until I feel I look presentable.

The whole eyebrow thing is completely true. During cancer treatment, I lost my eyebrows. I also lost my head hairs, my eyelashes, and all the little hairs inside of my nose, among others. I handled it like a champ, I think. But, there is no denying the level of unwellness that descends upon you when you have no eyebrows. Mine didn’t fully grow back, either. Thanks to the wonderful world of microblading, I now have eyebrows again! That’s where someone takes a very sharp blade with tattoo ink on the end and carves hair strokes onto your skin where an eyebrow should be, in their opinion. On the downside, microblading is expensive. I had mine done years ago by someone who was just getting started in the field, for free. One of my brows is the tiniest bit too low, making me look a bit like a confused anime character at times. I even them out with some brow gel. Basically, this is the entirety of my cosmetic applica-tion theme. Even out the imperfections. Straighten the brows. Dab concealer on those navy blue undereye circles inherited from Granny Stilwell. Blur away that sunspot by my right temple, just where my father also had one. Contour my neck so I minimize the turkey waddle gifted to me by my mother’s genes. Bronze me when I’m too pale. Highlight me when I’m too tan. Deepen the cupid’s bow that has collapsed over time. Dim the crow’s feet from over a half century of laughing at my own jokes. You know, just make everything look better.

There I was last week. Still in the throes of sickness, unable to do anything besides cough until I gagged. I called my doctor and was instructed to head that way immediately for an updated chest x-ray. I stood in front of the mirror, still coughing, wondering if anyone would know the difference. I slipped a long sweater over my black pajama set, plopped a baseball cap over my decidedly stale smelling hair, brushed my teeth, and walked out of my house. The ragged edges of my lips were sticking together, the skin peeling from weeks of mouth breathing. As I was lining up my torso for the new x-ray, the technician asked me if I was wearing any metal in my clothes or undergarments. “No ma’am,” I managed to talk-cough in her direction. “I just wore my pajamas.” She smiled at me and winked as she said, “That is the best thing I’ve heard all day.” Maybe the kids got this one right.