It’s almost 5 pm and I’m still in my pajamas. I’m not exactly sure how it happened and yes, I do realize how pathetic it sounds. Less than a week after my official retirement and another week away from diving into book writing and I can’t even be bothered to change into actual clothes to face the day.
I yearn to point out that it’s a lazy Saturday, but honestly, can there be any excuse? I think not.
After several marathon packing expeditions, I finally cleared out the last of my belongings from my office yesterday — so today has been all about rearranging it here at the house and figuring out what stays in boxes and what comes out to use. Cleaning out my office was like an archeological dig — with layer after layer revealing itself. And it’s almost as bad here at the house. Just not enough room. Which leads me into psychological questionings about how much these physical reminders matter (very little) and how much stress I’ll incur trying to hang onto them.
Even so, it’s hard to throw stuff out. There’s the going-away page they did for me in Austin which featured my big dog Jeb or the Texas flag all my pals signed. Not to mention the collected stories, notes and knick knacks I’ve picked up during my 7 years here in West Palm Beach. What percentage is worth hanging on to . . . and what belongs in the trash?
This question and others like it have consumed my day — and apparently rendered me unable to trade pajamas for street clothes. I’m staying in tonight, so even now I really don’t have a pressing reason to change.
So now I’m trying to remember the last time I spent a whole day in my pajamas, when I wasn’t sick I mean.
Come to think of it, I believe there have been a few pajama-clad Saturdays here and there, where I was left to my own devices and ended up puttering around the house, organizing a draw or closet, doing a small craft project or just writing letters. Days when I just kept discovering that the thing I wanted to do next didn’t require me to change clothes. Perhaps my pajama penchant isn’t the towering symbol of sloth I feared.
Nevertheless, confessing my attire to blogland has at last galvanized me into action. The second I post this, I’m dressing for the day.
Really. I promise.
A Certain Age 