Pajama Pants Roll Call

I think I'm a fairly attractive person. My dad tells me I'm semi-beautiful. I'm tall, moderately slender (at least I was before I had Talmage), I've got long blond hair. I've got a "distinguished" nose that was genetically UPS'ed to me straight from Norway.

On Sundays and days when I teach I put on my classy clothes purchased for me by my generous and sartorially gifted in-laws, I take full advantage of the love for funky jewelry bestowed on me by my mother; and man, on those days I am nothing short of HOT.

Other days, however, I'm lucky to make it to 3:30 pm before I shed whatever outfit I put on for the day and change into my dressing-down clothes. On these days (read everyday except Sunday and Tuesday) I like to remind Tyler that he daydreamed of a wife who wore her grubbies and put her hair in a ponytail, although I'm pretty sure that in his daydream that imagined wife looked a lot cuter than I do and had a lot cuter grubbies than I do. I don't even have any compulsions against going out in public.

I think these extremes in wardrobe come directly from my dad, a semi-handsome man who owns 17 white shirts to go with his 5 suits and 20 ties. The rest of his wardrobe consists of 4 T-shirts, one that proclaims "So many books, so little time," one that advertises Orofino, a throw-back to when my mom thought she could solve all of Brazil's health problems through bottled water, one T-shirt that he earned running the 1984 Deseret News Marathon, and the final T-shirt displaying a large toucan. These shirts he pairs with pressed khaki shorts, dressy black socks, and the tennis shoes he wore when he ran the 1984 Deseret News Marathon. On his head he gently places a cap with the logo of the now defunct Finn B. Paulsen construction company, proudly displaying it Ashton Kutcher style. We Paulsens know how to dress DOWN.

In the spirit of historical accuracy, I thought I'd chronicle my large collection of pajama pants, starting with the pants I received for Christmas last year and work backwards chronologically. The list will showcase the pants proudly displayed in Tyler's video "Sparklers and Snaps," the pants that my college roommate saw and asked, "Have you had those a really long time? I think I recognize them." To which I respond, "You think college is a long time?" Honey, that's like saying I have an old vintage wine, aged three years (does it sound like I know what I'm talking about? don't tell anyone I looked up wine vocabulary on wikipedia). My pants get better with AGE, and the ones I'm wearing now are full-bodied, woody, complex, and round.

1. 2007 I received these pajama pants for Christmas from the formerly mentioned sartorially gifted in-laws. When Marissa, my little sister, saw them she noted, "Those pants really are a cut above the rest of the collection." They are red and pink with a not-quite-paisley print. My sisters-in-law received the same pants and I notice that they both look cuter in them than I do, an direct comment on the fact they wear the pants with the matching long-sleeve red cotton tee that came with them, not the Fill the Ark Fun Run tee with a goat on the front, like I do.

2. 2007 Black, three racing stripes down the side. Tyler gave them to me with a matching running jacket, and in the completed outfit, I feel only mildly Greek with a desire to put on several gold chains.

3. 2005 I mark these pants 2005, but I only received them in 2005. These are pre-owned pants and I have no idea when they were purchased. They are navy with a thin white racing strip down the legs and when I wore them to my parents house, Marissa said, "I really thought you'd fix the hole in the butt before you wore them." Current state of the hole? Still there.

4. 2004 Again, pre-owned pants, original date unknown. Navy. Fuzzy. From Banana Republic. And I say, who cares if they're from 1997? Once Banana Republic, always Banana Republic.

5. 2004 Light blue with a small polka-dot print. I wore these pants when I was staining the fence, including when I sat on the bench with spilled stain on it, yielding pants that look like their stained by _____. Marissa commented yesterday, "Laura, you need to throw those _____-stained pants away." And I said, "It only looks like _____ stain. It's actually wood stain." And she said, "But it looks like _____ stain. Isn't that really the problem?" To which I NOW respond "Get off my back. You clearly are the most vocal critic of my pajama pants. And I keeping the _____-stained pants."

6. 2004 Green. Gray-racing stripes. More pre-owned pants. I guess this is a testament to how much of my wardrobe I inherit from cute sister Marissa. Now I'm feeling bad for telling her to step off before.

7. 2001 Pre-owned and oh, so comfortable. Cotton with a blue plaid print. I got these off of one of my mission companions which I am keeping despite the fact that you can now see through them as an academic folklore object documenting missionaries giving each other stuff. And did I mention how comfortable they are?

8. 2000 I bought these from the Gap so I could have a cute going-to-Moab outfit with the Howes before I was a part of their family. And it worked. Darris complimented my Moab digs. They are now paint-splattered.

9. 1997 The classic flannel plaid pajama pants. Tyler took me to MA junior year. It was a pajama party. He bought me these pants. Don't I need to keep them just for that reason? I've washed them so many times they now flood half-way up my calves, and I find they look particularly nice with my J-crew scoop neck white tee that I've owned since 1993 with a hole in the shoulder. My mother and husband have both tried to throw away this entire outfit. To which I say, "Jokes on you! Still wearing it."