On Power Suits

I am beginning to suspect that good hygiene has been my downfall, my kryptonite, the real reason I did not live an accomplished life outside my own four walls.

It took retirement to shine the spotlight on what should have been obvious much earlier:  I am a powerhouse in my pajamas but once I stop to take a shower and get dressed, I’m like Samson with a fresh haircut--my superpowers fall into the waste bin, gone in a snip. 

I can leap tall buildings (or at least a high mattress) with a single bound when I awaken in the morning.  I fire up the computer and turn on the day.  I make my bed.  I straighten up my entire apartment and put away the dishes.  I water the plants.  I check the refrigerator for aged leftovers and wrap up the remains for the trash.  I wipe down the bathroom sink and empty the trash can.  I replace the toilet paper roll and put out a clean hand towel.  I clean out my purse and check my change for valuable coins.  I do my squats, lunges, pushups, wall squats, planks, and sit-to-stand exercises.  I say my prayers.  I pay my online bills and write cards to far away friends.  I sort the laundry with actual care, checking the pockets for rogue Kleenex and gum wrappers carried home from use during my morning walks.  I contemplate what else I can do with the day. And then it’s 8:30 AM, and I eat breakfast.

I am completely comfortable and relaxed in my PJs.  No tight waistband.  No irritating fabric. No shoes Nothing to tug at me or to irritate my flesh or my nerves.  No looking in the mirror to put the focus on how I look instead of what I can do. I am so happy in my pajamas that I am sure that if I actually encountered someone that I would be the kindest version of myself which gets me to thinking of soldiers sleeping all night in trenches waking in their combat fatigues ready for battle.  Could my PJs be my compassion fatigues?  Am I too old to save the world?

I think back to my childhood when my younger sister was a preschooler.  My mother would say “brush your hair” to which my sister would reply “Why?  I’m not going anywhere.”  Preschoolers have this down.  No wonder they kick and scream when forced to dress.  We lose something with age, but I am getting it back! The beauty of retirement is that I can spend all day in my PJs.  I can answer the door at three o’clock in the afternoon dressed in my pajamas, sporting bedhead and morning breath and people will just shrug and say, “Old people.”

With the general state of our couture, maybe we can get away with wearing our compassion fatigues in public.  Comfortable old people changing the world!  There is one minor but important exception: if you sleep in the nude, you might what to call that outfit your passion fatigues and do your work from home.