Dear Pajama Pants,
I love you. Oh, how I love you. On my list of things that I love, you’re right below “my family” and right above “bacon”.
We’ve known each other for about… what, five years now? I got you during my Freshman year at college, and it’s been nothing but warm legs on cold nights ever since. You’re the only Aeropostale clothing I’ve ever owned, and you’re wonderful.
You know what I love the most about you, PJ Pants? Often, I forget that I’m wearing you. That’s how comfortable you are. I’ve made no secret of it that my favorite state in this world is “pantsless”: it’s why I like kilts so much, and why when I’m at home alone I can be seen walking around clad in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and a wifebeater. It’s just… so COMFORTABLE.
But sometimes, PJ Pants, I’m not at home alone. In fact, I’m going to upgrade “sometimes” to “oftentimes”: oftentimes, there are people there. And for those occasions, when I don’t want to put on actual pants (like jeans or khakis or slacks), you’re there, waiting on my floor or folded in a drawer (mostly just on the floor, though), beckoning me with your delightful cotton-blended embrace.
I love you, Pajama Pants. Keep being awesome, and thanks for covering my junk.
Yours very sincerely,