The Everything Sucks World Tour '18

It started, as most psychotic breaks do, with a pair of PJ bottoms.  And in my defense, these weren't just any ratty pair of Kohl's pajamas.  These were my specialty-PJ-designer, luxuriously soft, wildly priced, gifted-to-me-for-convalescing, multi-hyphenate PJs.  It had been an unseasonably cool and rainy Sunday and all day I thought, "Mmmmm puttin' on my luxxxe PJs ta-NITE!"  (I live a small life; you have to give me these indulgences.)

One thing led to the next and then it was time - PJ TIIIIIIME.  I opened the PJ drawer.  I dug around for them, and dug some more. I took tattered  tshirts out. I put tattered tshirts back in. And then I realized: My beautiful baby blue PJs were gone.  Gone like the summer wind.  Desapareció.  Ripped from my pajama drawer and therefore my dreams, never to be returned, dooming me to life of ratty Gap Body flannel from 2010.

That's the moment when my sanity, threadbare like an old PJ tee, really failed me.  I went on a spectacular rant, forging ahead undaunted even as my boyfriend openly fell asleep instead of dealing with me.  "I've never lost a pair of pajama bottoms in my life, so why would Iose these pajamas?  The nice ones?! Are you fucking kidding me? "  I continued to drop F bombs over pajamas as I turned our bedroom upside down, lights blazing, sleeping man in the middle. 

Finally, I gave up.  I resigned myself to my fate of raggedy t-shirts and shorts that should have been thrown out during the Obama years (RIP), and I went to bed. 

I laid there that night, sleepless, tormented by the loss of luxury fabrics.  The funk lingered into the following day - which, if I'm being clinical, was a piece of shit rainy day. That's the scientific term. 

The melancholy of that Monday set the tone for the whole workweek. Between the lingering exhaustion and the haunting thoughts of, "Where are my pants?" I was a broken woman.  I moped a lot and thought about how frustrating my life has been lately, and somewhere during that week I decided that my life should be titled the, "Everything Sucks World Tour '18."  It felt like a logical, clear-eyed decision at the time. Like, yes, let's order up some merch. Let's take this thing on the road. EVERYTHING SUCKS AND NOTHING CAN GO MY WAY, NOT EVEN GODFORSAKEN PAJAMAS.

Thankfully, I've had enough sunshine and carbs since then to see that title as a tad melodramatic; however, the loss of those beautiful bottoms reqlly did affect me. It felt like something I really liked - a small thing, in the scheme of things - was taken away from me.  And that tied into a bigger theme of my recent life, wherein it feels like everything good in my life is being taken away from me. Big or small, real or not.  Time and body parts and capabilities.  Coping mechanisms that normally get me through day to day life.  Sleep.  Dreams and timelines for my life. The image of myself as a healthy person, a lucky person, a person who eats organic vegetables and so is probably immortal.   The kind of person who could get a gift and just...keep the gift.  Use it, sleep in it, dream peaceful dreams in it. 

Anyway, a week or so later, I found the PJ's.  The pants that launched a thousand fits were tucked into a laundry bag in my closet - something I'm sure I did while thinking, "this is a great idea!" Because in case I haven't mentioned it yet, these are luxxxe PJs and, thus, must be specially hand-washed.  LUXURY. 

I felt stupid in that way you do when you've really lost your shit over something that was only half-real.  Maybe my life isn't an Everything Sucks World Tour (and honestly, I've only cried in one foreign country this year, so "World Tour" is aggrandized from even a factual standpoint).  Maybe I'm just being dramatic in the name of pajamas.  Maybe the things I feel have been taken away are just temporarily unavailable, stuffed in a bag somewhere. Maybe they'll come back.  Maybe it's all only half-real.  I've still got one boob, anyway.