The Perils of Pajamas

I can work in my pajamas if I want to. For about the first six months of me writing full time, I did.

Pajamas, however, are dangerous.

If you don't put on real pants, soon enough you're thinking or I don't REALLY need to wash my hair or That Thai food I put in the fridge two weeks ago and forgot about doesn't REALLY smell all that bad.

And then you find yourself barricaded in your office, hair unwashed and guts churning because really, you shouldn't have eaten that Thai food but you haven't been out to the grocery store in a month. Your personal assistant will do things like that, when you get one. Until then, you're content to live on coffee and Kraft macaroni while you create literary masterpieces in your PJs.

Or, surf LiveJournal in your PJs. Or play Chuzzel in your PJs. It's a slippery slope between working on deadline and working on beating your high score in Rock Band.

I find that if I'm going to have a productive day, I need to put on real clothes, get up, shower, actually answer some of those urgent emails that have languished for weeks. Otherwise, those delightfully comfortable lounging pants sitting on my dresser are going to give me an excuse to slack.

Also, you start forgetting how to dress if you hibernate in your writer cave, and only after getting odd looks in the post office do you realize that you left the house in slippers and a shirt that informs everyone that you are MRS. ACKLES in bright pink letters.

I don't have a point today at all. (And don't need one, cuz I'm funny.) I'm just glad I haven't turned into the crazy woman on the block who eats children if they venture into her yard and has 50 cats.

48 cats to go...

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