Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still remember what it feels like to wear a bra. Or footwear that isn’t lined with fur. What I can’t remember is when time stopped holding meaning, so lately my hours are marked by when it feels right to brew coffee versus uncork wine. One of the biggest indicators that time is currently (always?) a construct: our recent lack of a dress code.
In an effort just to timestamp my existence, I began swapping my daytime cozies for a nighttime set. With my excitement levels plummeting, my body yearns for a midday outfit change, if only to boost some much-needed serotonin. But is that normal?
I checked Twitter to gauge my level of mid-quarantine insanity. In my search for an answer to my jammie query (alongside ‘Does Bravo hire people to professionally watch its programming?’ and ‘What is the recommended daily serving of pizza rolls?’), I found that I wasn’t alone in this style delirium. There were others seeking a sleepwear-related thrill.