Gone Soft

The first time was in the dark of night. It was my sister who turned me on to it; she’s always been a bad influence. I was stuck at home during a snowstorm. I figured no one would know, no one would see. But that once was all it took. After the first time, I couldn’t do without it. The thought almost made me panic. I drove across town to get it. I had to have more.

I even tried a cheap knockoff in the attempt to support my microfleece habit. Instead of the real stuff, I threw some pajamas made of the crappier kind into my cart while buying groceries. And worse—though microfleece is not by nature one of your sexier fabrics, some misguided designer had tried to make this garment look snazzy by putting a sparkly thread in the furry fleece. Unfortunately, this had the opposite effect: it looked like a Yeti who’d run away from the mountains of Nepal to become a Las Vegas Show Gorilla. A Sadly Sassy Sasquatch. An Abominable Snow Ho.

But that’s how bad the addiction was, you see. I had to have it anyway.

I thought it would be heavenly warm (it is) and heavenly soft (it isn’t). The problem is those darned shiny threads—they jab. Who needs a bed of nails when you’re sleeping in a garment of pins? Like an idiot, I washed it thinking that would soften it somehow. I also thought it would help wash some of the store germs off. Now I can’t return it.

So it sits in the giveaway bag, ready to transform some lucky thrift-store shopper into Trashsquatch, the South Pole-Dancing Bigfoot. I can spare it now, though. I found a pair of microfleece pajamas that make me look like a fuzzy convict. Except instead of doing hard time, I’ll snuggle up with a good book and do soft time instead. Ahhh.

           

The receptionist, wearing mostly her bones, but also a black blouse, a very short black skirt, black tights, black shoes, and deeply red lipstick, checked around and said Robert could do me in about twenty minutes. ~Elizabeth Berg, The Pull of the Moon