I miss my pajamas.
I suppose it’s the weather lately that’s reminding me about the days I spent treacherously running around the neighborhood pool. I musta been about 6. That would’ve been 1982. Wait, that can’t be right. That would’ve been like 3rd grade or . . . wait. Five, I wanna say five.
The pool was just south of Liberty Park. A rather boring park short of the fact that is that was home to a retired army tank. And not just any army tank . . one that swallowed a kid. Or a kid fell inside and couldn’t get out. Or maybe a kid fell off it once, I don’t really remember.
My brother, sister and I all had summer passes to what used to be the local YMCA. We spent every single day at the pool during that summer. There was absolutely nothing else to do. Plus it’s where everyone else was. It’s where you could see and be seen. And as a 5 year old, that’s mildly important.
The particular summer coming to mind was important [or at least memorable] for two reasons. The first involves a child dumping in the pool while we all made an emergency exit. The person on the short end of that incident was the closest life guard, his head seen sinking as he grabbed the long blue net and ‘went fishing’. His body kept clinching together as if he was partially barfing in his mouth.
The second reason revolves around the fact that it was the year my mother purchased two of my favorite pieces of clothing, both in pajama form.
Both were long sleeve. Both were tan with brown cuffs. Both were badass.
One contained my favorite furry alien, Alf. He had a nose like Penelope Cruz, a tongue like every character who’s ever appeared in the Sopranos and, at least in my mind, a liver to rival John Daly’s.
The second contained everyone’s favorite 80’s near-dead icon, the ‘Where’s the Beef?’ chick. Funny, spunky, wrinkled to hell and back . . she was great. And let’s face it, made for great pajama content.
These two pieces of clothing were so beloved, the tops of said pajamas were worn, in conjunction with my bathing suit, to the neighborhood pool . . every . . damn . . day. Alternating, of course. If I’da worn the same top on two consecutive days . . I would have looked like some kinda moron.