Every day I walk through the door, and before I even think about it, I’m kicking off my Clarks, unbuttoning my shirt and pants and slinging them on top of the couch. At this point, it’s so automatic I don’t even think about it. Depending on the day, I may or may not get chastised by the Mrs. for leaving laundry all over the place, but generally, I don’t care. I understand why Tank (my dog) chases deer, knowing full well that he’s going to get in trouble: it just feels good.
I don’t know about you, but my closet consists of two categories — work clothes and leisurewear. After ritually tossing my work clothes off, my pajamas and t-shirt are laid in a messy pile, right where I left it this morning (because all I do is lounge in it, not like it gets dirty). Unless I spill shit on myself, which actually happens way more than it should, is a very good way to make sure I rotate stock.
Maybe it’s psychological. Business casual khaki’s and a polo aren’t uncomfortable, but my brain knows that “polo equals work and pajamas equal freedom.” With leisurewear, there’s no constriction, no need to impress, just me and the rest of the day until I have to put on my monkey suit for another day in the office.
Back in high school, my buddy Dan (the same one that did meet and greets) rocked leisurewear all the time, albeit in track jackets. Dan had enough track jackets to be considered Eurotrash or Russian, but it was part of who he was. Dan was a cool guy and was universally liked. He did me a lifetime solid and introduced me to leisurewear, and for that, I am eternally thankful. Some unfortunate people don’t pick up leisurewear life until way later in life.
Living the leisurewear life is a dedication to, well, leisure. After working at a country club for 11 years, I’ve worn, thrown out and owned more polos than most people can in an entire lifetime, so I know how to dress when I have to. I’m a working man; if I want to wear pajamas out to the bar, who’s to say I can’t? I stopped caring what people think about me ages ago. I’m engaged so I have no one to impress, and dammit, if I want to drink a beer and be comfy, I’m going to do so. Generally, when I rock pajamas to a bar, people assume I’m in college and are surprised when they find out I have a moderately respectable job.
Can’t judge a book by its cover, not that I’d care if you did or didn’t.
There are many different types of leisurewear. Warm weather is gym shorts, khaki shorts or my personal favorite, pajama shorts. As someone who generates a lot of body heat, it’s nice to have the comfort of pajamas with the flow of shorts. In the winter, I sport pajamas or the criminally underrated corduroy. Other options include track jackets, fleeces, and maybe a trench coat if you can pull it off and not look like an active shooter. More ‘20s gangster, less Columbine.
It doesn’t stop there. There’s nothing better throwing on an old rush shirt or the very casual white undershirt. Many ex-girlfriends have tried and failed to steal my rush or philanthropy shirts. The Mrs. even has a list of my shirts that she will steal should we ever break up. Keeping in shape and being able to fit in your old college shirts should be a top priority because losing a prized piece of comfortable clothing due to being a fat ass is no way to live.
Leisurewear is great for all occasions. Farmer’s markets, hiking, doing yard work, the gym – they are all great places to be comfortable. Our redneck brethren even have the “wife beater” should you feel so inclined to show off those pythons you’ve been working on. Make leisurewear your own, because life is too short to be uncomfortable. If children tell you wearing pajamas in public is not okay, tell them Santa is not real and that they were adopted. You may have ruined Christmas, but at least their parents won’t lie to them and that’s a lot bigger problem than pajamas in public. Hell, sometimes I get shit from adults about pajama pants, but I remind them that I am much more comfy than they are. After all, who dresses up to play beer league hockey? I’m a pioneer for the comfort of America. .
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