It’s funny how folks who work at home (writers, painters, composers, phone-sex workers, though not those who use Skype visuals) will so often use “working in my pajamas! as their number one perk.

But is it really true?

Is it still true when you realize, as you hear the truck coming down the road, that the day has come when not even the UPS delivery person can see you. (See above.) You look down at your old pink fleece pants that are too short and rise way above your ankles, topped by a too-small purple tee shirt that your daughter left at home (but that you wear for the same reason you wear anything these days: it’s comfortable.)

Around your neck is a pink scarf you grabbed because it’s ten degrees outside (points for the matchy-match!!) that does not, I repeat, does not belong to any part of this outfit.  Although the faux-tie-dye look does have a certain insouciance that could surely attract someone. Somewhere. Perhaps in the prison for the criminally insane, which is not that far from your house.

Then you peer at your Junior-Soprano-style reading glasses. They are not hip. They are not youthful-looking. They are not anything except a window to the lack of makeup you are once again not wearing.

Walk down memory lane and you see the other favorite outfits you wear. You have let your husband see you in these Scottie Dog pajamas? The ones you like to wear with the no-skid socks? Are you playing The Ghost of Wife Future? Showing him just how lovely you will look in the nursing home? Ensuring that come the day you will neither slip on the linoleum nor want for a lack of pets?

Have you forgotten that old Jack Jones song? (“Hey little girl, fix your hair . . . )

http://youtu.be/u0rqaRfsNfg

You are not a lover. You are a bag lady.

You realize that you cannot open the door if there is a fire. How could you let the neighbors, the firemen, or the EMT workers see you wearing Scottie dogs at 3:30 in the afternoon.

Perhaps you could open the door if you were wearing your oldest friends in the world: the fire red Gap sweatpants & five sizes too large Gap sweatshirt. (You can prove the lineage by the giant letters. Pants circa 1980-85. Sweatshirt can be traced to ’92 or so.

Appreciate the socks decorated with pictures of toast. Always an attractant.

Note the bleach stains:

The outfits are becoming worrisome. My shower and change pushes later and later, until I fear I lose sight of that that fine line between at-home casual and no-boundaries.

Remembering an almost forgotten Skype date, I run to put on make-up and style my hair:

But what am I wearing below Skype-view level?

Yes, those all important no-skid socks. God forbid I slide under my desk.