CONFESSIONS OF A PAJAMA QUEEN

I keep Amish hours. Most nights I’m in bed by eight, lights out by nine-thirty. Mornings, I’m up at five or earlier. That’s when I do my morning meditation, followed by yoga and energy work, which involves tracing my meridians to align my body’s energy. That takes a total of 90 minutes on average. During the winter when the days are shorter, it’s still dark out by the time I’m done with my morning routine. I’m at my desk, showered, dressed, and fed when the sun is peeking over the horizon.

I’m a morning person in case you haven’t guessed by now. I have been since I was young. It’s how I wrote 20 adult novels, 32 young adult novels, and one cookbook while raising children as a single mom and in the years since. I love the peace and quiet of the morning. I love rolling out my yoga mat, plot points for whatever book I’m working on bubbling in my brain, while the rest of the world snoozes. My phone doesn’t ring or ping with text messages (unless it’s a message from someone in another time zone). I have the house to myself. There are no chores looming. No commitments such as doctor appointments to interrupt my workflow. It’s just me, my laptop, and my percolating brain.

The downside to keeping Amish hours is that I’m usually yawning when others are sitting down to eat dinner in the evenings. Last night I was woken by loud music from the apartment upstairs. My neighbors were throwing a party, it seemed (yes, incredibly, even in the midst of a pandemic!) I didn’t look at the time because it might have put a dent in my righteous indignation if it had been before midnight. In my half-awake and grumpy state, I preferred to think my rude neighbors had awoken me with their loud partying in the wee hours of the morning.

The difference between when I was in my youth at the age I am now is that I used to feel guilty about wanting to be in my pajamas, curled up with a book or watching TV, at a time of day when most people I knew were either putting their children to bed or putting on their dancing shoes. I used to dread being invited to a dinner party, fearing if I declined the invitation I’d offend the host or hostess and knowing if I went to the party I’d be the one guest trying not to fall asleep in her soup. And because I believed my natural inclination was the province of old folks, hermits, farmers, I fought it. When I was a company wife married to my ex-husband, the literary agent, I hosted and attended numerous cocktail parties and dinner parties, had subscriptions to both Carnegie Hall and the Metropolitan Opera. I traversed time zones traveling the globe. I could do it all! I was Superwoman!

The reality was I was often nodding off during the concerts and opera performances I attended. I would get through an evening that involved making nice with other people by visualizing the pajamas and warm bed that waited for me at home. I had a bagful of excuses at the ready for those times when I really, really couldn’t face another evening commitment. I couldn’t own who and what I was. It seemed embarrassing somehow.

Now in my maturity I’m a shameless pajama wearer. When the window shade goes down at the end of each day, I’m in my PJs. When someone invites me out to dinner, I suggest we do a weekend brunch instead. Black tie events? Forget about it. Unless either my husband or I were an honoree at an awards banquet or giving a TED talk, you won’t find me in an evening gown wearing heels.

Not only am I not embarrassed, I’m happier than I’ve been. I’m up well before sunrise most days and I work long hours. Why wouldn’t I be tired in the evenings? Also, I’m not as young as I used to be and don’t have the energy I used to. I don’t even have the energy to make up excuses for why I can’t come to your dinner party. Instead, I wish you all a good night doing whatever makes you happy while I crawl into bed with whatever book I’m reading. I am an unabashed pajama queen. Live with it.