I remember a time, long long ago, when I was so concerned with what I looked like that I would skip class if I was having a bad hair day.

Once I refused to go to computer programming class because my friend and I were wearing the exact same sweatshirt and the idea of sitting there, matching, was incomprehensibly wrong.

Maybe I didn’t care so much about what I looked like, and I was just looking for reasons to skip classes. Hmmm.

Anyway, back in the day, I was fairly aware of my appearance.  I wasn’t a fashion plate by any stretch. But there were certain lines I would not cross.

Clean clothes each day.

At least one shower each day.

Hair and makeup (not GOOD hair and makeup – but presentable) before venturing out in public.

Then I had kids.

And the rules loosened a tad.

Clean clothes could not be guaranteed.  But they were still a goal.

Then I started working at home.

And the rules loosened a tad more.

That shower? Yeah, sometimes that happens around 4 in the afternoon.

Sometimes that doesn’t happen at all.  Sigh.

There are days (infrequent, but they happen) when it is 2PM and I have to walk the dog and I am STILL in my pajamas.  I am the crazy lady in her pajamas at 2PM.

But then yesterday…oh yesterday…I went where I have not gone before.  I fear that I have fallen off of a precipice of social propriety and I might not be able to get back.

I had to drive Sprout to school.  And when I drive children to school I do not get dressed. So I had on fuzzy leopard-print pajamas, slippers, and my coat.

As we pulled out of the driveway, I realized the fuel light was on.  Had been since the evening before. Crap.

My brain quickly attempted to strategize (to the extent that my pajama-clad brain is able to at 7AM – not prime strategizing hours.)

I could run back inside and change.  No, then Sprout would be late.

I could drop her off, come home, change and then go back for gas.  No, the light had been on for a little while, no guarantee I could get that far.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

So, I dropped her off.  And there across the street was an enormous Wawa.

All those gas pumps.

All those people.  In actual clothes.

I stared HARD at the gas gauge – willing it to do some cartoon-worthy sproooingg back into the green.  But no. Red.  So very red.

It’s about 5 miles home.  I could make it 5 miles, right?

But then I thought – walking 5 miles (or part of 5 miles) up a major highway in my pajamas and THEN walking into a gas station would probably be significantly worse than just doing the gas station part.  Probably.

So I did it.  I drove over to the Wawa.  I parked on the very end (so I wasn’t actually standing NEXT to someone, although it did make me more visible to any and all passing traffic.)  And then I GOT OUT OF MY CAR IN A PUBLIC PLACE IN MY PAJAMAS.

No.

No.

No.

I didn’t.

YES I DID!!

I chanted in my head “I don’t notice what anyone else here is wearing, so they aren’t noticing me.” Although the reason I wasn’t noticing anyone was that I was putting great effort into hiding – while pumping the tiniest amount of gas possible so I could get the heck out of there.

I jumped back in the car and headed back home and went about my day as if nothing earth-shatteringly wrong had happened.  But OMG – that was a line I really didn’t expect to cross.  Like, ever.

And can I just tell you that flashing through my head all day was: Is this the road that leads you to walking naked into a Walmart looking for some socks?  Because I so don’t want to end up THERE.

So.  Today.  I got in the car to drive her again.  And the light was on – AGAIN! (Because I had only put in a couple of gallons yesterday in my haste to be back in pajama-appropriate territory.)  But guess what.  This morning (and probably every other morning until the scarring subsides), I put on CLOTHES before we went anywhere!