When Vogue declared last September that the chic pajama set was a “physics-shattering force of nature,” I happily agreed—when it came to my everyday wardrobe, at least. But when it was time to slip under the sheets, I was less inclined to bring the silky separates with me. Somehow, what was wrong—luxurious pj’s by day, antiquated sweats by night—felt infinitely more right.
Nevertheless, the merits of conversion weighed on me, as co-editors continued to sing the praises of sleeping in something with more fashion savvy. Not to mention the fact that a sleepwear boom had begun with hip brands like Sleepy Jones, Olivia von Halle, and For Restless Sleepers delivering pieces that effectively shook off any kiddie associations from the pajama set.
Would my life be better if I dozed off in these confections, I genuinely wondered? Would it render my slight insomnia, well, slightly more glamorous, if nothing else? I pictured myself as a real-life Holly Golightly, traipsing around my apartment in a perfectly pressed dress shirt, a pillowy blue eye mask draped just so atop my head. In fact, the dream wasn’t far off—I could have it delivered straight to my home from Etsy for a cool $89.
>But whenever I returned home for the day, clothes strewn off to step into something more relaxing, nothing luxurious called my name. I preferred, instead, the comfort of old favorites: collegiate sweats and T-shirts thinned from years spent tossing and turning with me. With daytime spent dressed in clothes that were a little more fussy, it felt downright freeing to give in to pieces that required nothing at all. No steaming, no buttons, no dry-cleaning bill to be reckoned with, just effortlessness in its purest form (read: the kind not coveted by fashion girls the world over).
Realizing this, I marched anything remotely chic from my pajama drawer to my central closet, rendering it unsuitable for my precious downtime. I navigate a consortium of fashion rules already, so to break this one—no, to declare it unworthy of my time—was a small gift to myself, a few hours of the day unmitigated by fashion forces and Capote-driven dreams.