Dear Blue Pajama Pants

My Dearest Blue Pajama Pants,

It saddens to me have to write this to you, but I fear that it is time we part ways. Lately you seem to be unwinding at the seems, frazzled and weak. It seems as though I have worn you thin and despite your best efforts, you can no longer provide for me the way you once did.

Indeed, we have been through it all together. I remember when we first met, that glorious night in the hospital. I had just given birth to my daughter and desperate to get out of that dreadful hospital gown. That is when you were presented to me, neatly folded and wrapped in soft white tissue paper, nestled inside a colorful bag. From that day forward I knew we would be close, I just felt it.

We shared countless nights walking the floor with babies, innumerable mornings spent coffee clutching. You always stuck around for the clean up too. Remember that one time we painted the house? You remember, it was late, we waited until after the kids went to bed with my husband. He rolled a stripe of sage green paint on you, right on the back. You thought you were done then, but not me, I still wore you proud. Countless mornings we spent together on the bus stop, it never not once bothered me to be seen with you.

Oh, but now my old friend, you have gone grey and lost color in places, you’ve lost your elasticity, and the holes are spreading. I’m afraid there is not much more you will be able to endure. They say, maybe one more washing. So, before it comes down to you completely unraveling, I will leave you now, as you still have your shape and your dignity. When I look back at photographs of us together I will always be filled with fond memories and adoration I have for you.

Blue pajama pants, its time for me to say goodbye. There will never be another quite like you. You will be missed dearly.

Your devoted friend,

Lisa ❤

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Do you have a garment that devastated you to part with? How bad did you let it get?

This doesn’t look so bad, the back is filled with holes. Its not good.

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My Focus

I woke up one day and I was hand in hand with a handsome man, tall with jet black hair, masculine features, broad shoulders, well dressed, confident and exciting to be with.  As we walked hand in hand on the cobblestone road, weaving between magnificent architecture puzzled together like a maze leading us on our adventure, the sun shined down brightly upon us as we pondered where we should eat our next meal.  Which cafe or bistro shall we choose?  Would I like to sit here, outside in the cool breeze, beneath a red umbrella, resting my feet as the waiter sets exquisitely plated, savory, foreign foods from this land which we are discovering bite by bite.

Today, this memory is captured in my mind, floating around as I sit in my comfy living room, wearing my favorite pajama pants beside the tree which is peering down at me.  The holiday is over and you simply cannot walk through the house. I need to begin the cleanup, however I have decided to indulge in the memories of days gone by.  I don’t want to face the countless number of boxes, as one would imagine with four “nice” children and a generous grandmother, and after that task, my bed is covered with clean laundry, knotted together, just aching to be folded and sorted into the appropriate drawers.  I am aware that my overwhelming feelings don’t just stem from the monstrous mess scattered throughout the house or the heaping mountain of laundry, but from the lack of distraction my focus will have as of tomorrow.  No more joyous gift giving and secret planning for loved ones. The morning was filled with so much genuine magic and Christmas spirit that it had brought a tear to three adults eyes. However, now I am back to reality.  Back to the bills in which I have no idea how I will pay and more problematic situations in which I have no clue how to improve or change.

Sigh. . . but for tonight and for right now, I’m hand in hand, with that man, in a land far away eating wonderful food on the street, with a new dress resting in a bag beside me. The mess and the problems will just have to wait . . .

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