It had been a long, tiring day. All I wanted to do was to snuggle into comfy pajamas, flop in my chair with a good (comic) book, and relax.
I pulled flannel pajama bottoms from my drawer. Perfect.
Then I padded, sifted and slammed through every bedroom drawer, searching for the matching top. I found three more pajama pants but not pajama shirts, matching or otherwise.
After digging a long-sleeved thermal undershirt from the hamper, I clicked through nightwear ads. In every photo, I saw a square-jawed guy posing in what ad execs must think are manly activities — such as sipping tea from a porcelain cup or sniffing a single lilac — while wearing pajama bottoms but no top.
Beside him lingered a delicate lady about half his size. SHE wore the matching pajama top. You can tell it’s HIS top because it reached to her knees.
But manly man doesn’t notice either the woman nor that his belly has turned blue and icicles are forming on his manly man chest hairs because he’s too busy sniffing the lilac while balancing a fancy tea cup on a floral saucer.
I live alone. I have neither tea cups nor lilacs. Nor manly man chest hair.
Nor any tops for my pajama bottoms. Why? Are men not permitted.
Apparently, if I want a pajama shirt, this widower will have to remarry. But what good will that do? According to the ad execs, if I find men’s pajamas that come with a shirt, it’s hers.
It’s like that old chestnut about how sharing everything in marriage works — what’s mine is hers, and what’s hers is hers. Cool. I’ve got about 125 neckties that I’d be happy to bequeath to someone.
Or maybe I can weave them together to make a nightshirt for myself.
While I’m whining about products for men and women, let’s talk about shampoo.
For guys, it’s very basic. I wander into Walmart or some other department store and scoop a jug of all-purpose cleaner off the shelf. One size fits all. It’s a shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and, I think, mouthwash and motor oil as well.
I never knew that there were varieties until shortly after I became a married man. I discovered that husbandly duties included, but were not limited to: killing spiders; opening peanut butter jars; fetching things off the top shelf; and finishing up whatever shampoo was left over so that it didn’t go to waste.
“Why did you buy a new shampoo if you still had some left?” I thought it was a reasonable question.
“Because,” she said, making it clear with an eye roll that it was a stupid question, “after two weeks, hair doesn’t respond as well to one shampoo, so you have to keep changing it.”
“Then why is it OK for me to be stuck with using your old bottles for however long it takes?”
“Please, you lather in stuff that works as motor oil. Men’s hair is immune to good taste.”
So I spent the rest of that marriage with fruit flies circling as my head alternately, depending on what shampoos she leftover, gave off the aroma of strawberries, apricots, avocados, gardenias, mint, almonds, shea butter, oranges, macadamias and something called argan.
It’s very disturbing when another man sniffs your hair. And revealing when he says, “Ah, coco mango. That’s the shampoo flavor I had to finish off for my wife last month. You really ought to see if you can get her to try crisp apple rose. You gotta watch out for worms, though.”
“I wonder if there’s a cheeseburger scent.”
“Haven’t heard of that,” he said. “But if they ever have a shampoo that comes with a free pajama top, I’m buying it. It gets cold at night.”
Send pajama coupons to Burt at [email protected] or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.
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