I have an inexplicable fascination with Christmas pajamas. I adore the idea of having new nightwear for Christmas Eve.
And I don’t mean just any pair of new pajamas.
They can’t be something that you can wear all winter long. They have to be holiday specific pajamas… elves, reindeer, candy canes. The more corny the better.
And you can’t wear them before Christmas Eve. Not even once. They have to be saved especially for that night.
I don’t know where this obsession came from. I don’t remember ever having specific Christmas pajamas when I was a kid. It wasn’t one of our traditions.
Maybe I saw it in a movie or read it in a book.
Most years I talk myself out of buying holiday pajama no matter how much I want them. I convince myself that I’m too old for such frivolities. I don’t need that red flannel nightgown dotted Christmas trees or the fleece pants with gingerbread men dancing up the leg.
This year I gave in, though. I bought a nightgown with this on it:
A bit silly? Yes. Inappropriate for a forty-something year old woman? Maybe.
But it makes me deliriously happy, so who cares.