It is rather commonly known that I would spend all of my life in my comfiest PJs if I could. On Sundays I change into them as soon as we get home from church, so from 2pm on, I am in my happy pjs. In college, I used to change into them immediately upon returning to my dorm room between classes. On Tuesdays, (my blessed day of nothingness) I don't change out of them until around 11am, and that's only because I have to get Nathaniel to afternoon Kindergarten.
The night of the Super Bowl, I had to go out to the van to get something around 5pm. It was still light enough to see. And since it was a Sunday afternoon, I was already in my PJs. Also, Todd had parked the van in the street that day. I briefly considered donning a trenchcoat over my red be-penguined fleecy footsie pjs, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. And who was going to be outside during the Super Bowl anyway? Instead I slipped on my black and white polka dot rubber rain boots and headed down the driveway.
I had just reached the van when my neighbor across the street stepped out of his house wearing an enormous head lamp and carrying several light bulbs in his hands. He has a thing for flashlights and lanterns. He owns them in all shapes and sizes. Maybe it's because we're both from NJ, where a different level of quirkiness is embraced, or maybe it's becuase we were able to gaze across the street that night and recognize a common bond in one another.
We are both weirdos. We nodded at one another, not saying anything about our respective get-ups and continued on with what we were doing.
Really, everyone is a weirdo. Everyone has something that seems completely normal and rational to them but is viewed as a little absurd by everyone else.
Some people are just better about playing close to the vest with their inner weirdo.
My neighbor and me, not so much.