Mary Panza

Saying I have hit rock bottom is an understatement. At least that is what I thought. I am alone, relationship wise, for the first time in my life. It is scary and uncomfortable. I don’t like it as much as I thought I would. When my girl is with her Dad and I can’t find anyone to hang out with I am often in the fetal position on my couch. I watch lots of crap TV and read the paper. Don’t get me wrong. I do know how I am fortunate. Everyone is healthy and my boobs are looking good which is the only perk of this recent weight gain.

A few Fridays ago my friend, Annie Oakley, called to invite me and my girl over for dinner. Annie (of course, not her real name) is a social liberal that recently learned to shoot a hand gun and liked it. She REALLY liked it. Annie and I have been friends since our kids were in daycare together and we discovered we had important things in common. We like drinking, eating and Bravo reality shows. She is another example of a person that does everything right. Like my BFF Capri, she walks her talk. It is a quality I have been trying to incorporate into my life. Well, I’m working on it. I was sitting at her kitchen table as she pours the wine and I am looking at her catalogues. Then, it appears. How I know that the doomsday preppers are right. It is scarier than zombie attacks, plagues, and skinny jeans in my size. It is proof that we have given up all hope. It is the PAJANCHO. The tag line is: “PJ comfort from Fiesta to Siesta.” I had to read it twice. It is marketed to ladies of a certain age and size. It screams GIVE THE FUCK UP! YOU ARE ALONE AND SINGLE AND YOU’RE ODDS OF CASHING IN YOUR WINNING POWERBALL TICKET WHILE BEING STRUCK BY LIGHTING ARE BETTER THAN YOU EVER GETTING A MAN!!! Oh yeah, it screams that. Basically, and without fuss, it is a pajama and a poncho with a belt (to make it fancy) in three depressing colors: black, grey, and baby blue (for the optimists). It is giving up.

I’m built for comfort; not in a sexy way. I enjoy sweatpants. I have a job that requires and encourages me to wear comfortable clothes. I work barefoot. I love black tank tops and, well, black cotton clothes in general. I also love the greatest lie in clothing ever: active wear. Specifically yoga pants. First of all there are a very small percentage of active wearing ladies that are active. The whole thing should be called driving around, doing chores, going through fast food drive thru windows, getting high calorie coffee drinks while chatting with your other yoga pant wearing friends. That goes for the fancy sneakers as well. No active wear looks that good if you are working out. I know athletes. Their active wear looks worn. Their sneakers are not shiny. With all of this said, I still am saddened by the Pajancho. It is a sack. Really, a sad sack. You have stopped dying your hair, waxing (at the very least) your facial hair, and are a click away from

I am not giving up. I am making it official. I know I am playing against all odds. I don’t want to end up on this mailing list. I don’t support the Pajancho. I will, when feeling fetal and pathetic, say my new mantra, “Hey, at least you are not wearing a Pajancho.” I believe this will save my life. I believe it could save yours.