A rock star can wear what she wants.

There was a time when I missed the bus because I was perfecting the accessories to my outfit. The rest of the morning didn't go so well, but it didn't matter because I looked like a rock star.

Twenty years later, I'm living a completely different life. (It's a good thing, too, because eighth grade was fun, but it's not where I want to be forever.)

Yesterday I didn't give any thought at all to what I should wear. Zero accessories graced me. In fact, it wasn't until I was changing into my pajamas that I realized what I had been wearing all day.

I still had on my my husband's t-shirt that had I slept in the night before. 

Luckily for my neighbors, I had thrown on some comfy pants so my legs weren't chilly. A loose pony tail, frantically applied mascara, and chipped finger nail polish finished my ensemble. All in all, it was a good day--for me.

My husband's Hard Rock Cafe Canada shirt took a beating, though.

I couldn't stop myself from counting twelve stain patches and noticing that each patch was a variant shade of green, brown, or red. If shirts could talk, this one would have tattled on me, for sure.

I did a little experiment and discovered sour milk has a stronger smell than garlic. I know this because though the guacamole patch was fresher than the milk patch, I couldn't smell any trace of garlic.

I paused to wonder about my toddler's lip. I forgot to check what the wound looked like once the bleeding stopped. But I do know it stopped, and that's the important thing.

Do you know how many things are brown? I don't know the exact number, but I know it's a lot, because I still can't figure out where those stains came from. Also, there are a lot of names and smells that describe the kind of brown you could be investigating--caramel, beige, umber, burnt sienna, coffee, mahogany, buff, cocoa. See?

I had a happy realization that I am most definitely not my husband's size, and the exercise I've been diligent about means I kinda feel like wearing pajamas that actually fit my shape. I won't, though, because the thirty-something me stuffs the eighth grade me in her locker before she can even wonder if she'll have to buy new slippers to match the pretty pajamas.

Let's be serious, here. I love the idea of looking cute while I sleep. Really, I do. But does cuteness really trump efficiency? If I'm doing the math right, a night, and a day, and a night, is like killing three birds with one sleep shirt.

I'm nothing if I'm not efficient, these days.

Pajamas it is.

Stains, smells, and discolorations will accumulate, no matter what I wear. It's a hard rock life.