This sentence sums me up quite well. I have a love of comfort and less-is-more clothing (weather permitting) so, as soon as I get home, I can usually be found in the bedroom digging out my ‘home clothes’. I have a whole drawer dedicated to comfy tee-shirts and singlets, boxers and sweat pants and, yes, even some onesies (they are comfortable after all).
Right now, I’m sporting a well-worn pale blue tee with the words “Be mine” and a picture of Gremlins’ Gizmo on it and some grey, loose-fitting yoga pants. No glamour here and not necessarily something I would consider outside-appropriate. However, if that outside is just taking the dogs down to pee in the morning, then it’s totally fine. My neighbours can just deal.
This obsession with ‘at home’ comfort doesn’t end when we have company. Sometimes people will come back to our house for a few drinks and – shazam! Quicker than you can say ‘where did she go?’, I’m in my comfies. If there are other girls, they tend to look at me with envy so I find them some suitable comfy clothes too, if they want. They often do. Many a piece of pyjama-ry has gone missing this way. People wear them home and the clothes never make their way back. A sad but true story, modern day tragedy.
Now I don’t want you to think I’m just a massive slob. Aside from the whole comfort side of things, we also have two dogs who think they’re people. One of these dogs is a pug and, if you’ve ever had the good fortune to meet one of these fantastical creatures, you’ll know that they shed fur more than any living being has the right to and still be furry. The other dog is a French bulldog, who also seems to have plenty of fur he doesn’t want. To make things worse, the pug is fawn and the Frenchie is brindle so no matter what colour you wear, the fur is bound to show.
So, there is method in my madness. Many an unwitting soul has sat down on our couch wearing all black, only to get up later COVERED in white pug fur. A friend of mine slept on our couch and woke up with pug fur entwined in his afro and beard – true story. Pug fur is not to be messed with. Once exposed, you’ll find traces of it for months afterwards. It even appears to have become weaponised; I’ve had to pull a few bits out of my feet with tweezers as they’ve jabbed themselves in like a splinter. No joke. I wear thongs around the house at all times now, thanks to this.
So, while my quick change may satisfy my desire to dress like I’m homeless as soon as I get home, it also helps out with the whole ‘not getting my good clothes covered in dog fur’ thing, which is a bonus really.