Susan was sitting in a parking lot talking on the phone with her little sister when a van pulled into the spot next to hers. Out spilled three medium sized children and their mother, who appeared to be in the same age range as Susan, meaning not too young & not too old.
Mom was walking around in a condition similar to many other women observed by Susan. Beyond sloppy.
Starting at the top, Mom's hair was held back by a scrunchie. Not a crime, but it should be.
She was wearing what appeared to be her husband's sweat shirt. It was husband-shaped and husband-colored without an ounce of anything feminine discernible beneath. It made Mom square.
However, the next item was so offensive it made Susan have to write 300 bloody words about it just for some relief.
Susan understands that she can't go crazy over pajama bottoms and can live quite comfortably knowing they're contained to high schoolers or neighbors walking within the perimeter of their own yard. Susan doesn't understand how the high schoolers stay warm wearing pajama bottoms throughout the winter, but she's not their mother and they can do what they want.
However, when a grown woman appears in public with thread bare, faded, shrunken to the ankles, raggedy ass pajama bottoms Susan must speak up.
Not to the offending party of course, but in secret,
at home, to her modest fan base.
It was as if Mom had come directly from the sty,
clad in the clothes she fed the pigs in.
The condition of Mom's pajama bottoms were so deplorable they yelled, I don't care how I look anymore,
I really don't.
Susan doesn't understand this phenomenon prevalent among her forty-something suburban sisters.
Ladies, what up?