My mother, who has never left the house without make up even to go to the gym and sleeps in satin night gowns every night, has deemed my pajamas horrible beyond repair. She’s felt the need to mention this every time she’s stayed with me for YEARS, to which my response has always been, “Who cares? No one sees them but me!” She then realized she had to craft a different strategy, so now every time she comes to visit, a few weeks prior she has to announce that she has a surprise for me, which she then proceeds to build up like she bought me a house in Beverly Hills. When I finally open it, it’s always some night gown with lace and bows that looks like it’s from a company that is the brain child of Tammy Faye Baker and Lonnie Anderson circa 1974. Considering she’s also willing to raffle me off to the highest bidder at this point, and no one but me sees my pajamas, I have put two and two together and determined that my mother is petrified that the next person I date will witness the fact that I wear baggy tee shirts and yoga pants to bed and be completely scarred for life, and run screaming in sheer repulsion out my door, never to return. Her generation just CANNOT conceptualize that a woman would not look perfectly lady like at every moment of every day, even in slumber. Thirty eight years of being subjected to this subtle mental erosion is probably a big reason why I’m starting to lose it. People get reality shows for this kind of shit. I don’t want one, but I will take the money. I will need it for the therapy I will need to reverse the damage.
This is a lingerie modeling shoot I did in 2007. I was a horrible model because the minute the photographer told me to “look sexy”, this retardation was usually what manifested. But, for the purposes of this post, I think it nicely exemplifies how I feel when I’m wearing silky nightgowns forced upon me by other people. (Copyright Charles Williams, 2007)