The Pajama Shame

"I'm just waiting for my change."

“I’m just waiting for my change.”

This isn’t what it looks like. I know, I know–a grown(ish) man, in his pajamas, eagerly awaiting the drive-thru window to flap open and a large vanilla milkshake to be conveyed into his idling sport utility vehicle does not look “good.” But what if I told you that the milkshake is not for me? What if I told you that the milkshake is for Wife, my pregnant wife? Would that make the cool kids, who just pulled up in their cool kids car looking like a cross between an American Eagle and American Spirit commerical, think I was NOT teetering on the brink of a late-twenties melt-down? Eh, who cares? Truth be told, I’m kind of enjoying this devil-may-go-on-pajama-milkshake-runs attitude. Besides, it’s not like I’m browsing the Metaphysics section at Barnes & Noble. I’m in a drive-thru: the penalty box of the food industry. Why a penalty box? Because you’re enclosed in glass and metal, feeling shame, until the guy in the box next to you gives you your change. Maybe next time I should roll up in my hockey gear for Maximum Analogy Impact. The point is, when you have a pregnant wife waiting on the other end of your errand, you can wear pretty much whatever you want without being scrutinized by strangers. Heck, I could be wearing a tuxedo and not feel embarrassed. Actually, wearing a tuxedo in a drive-thru, alone, would be much, much worse than wearing pajamas. That just screams “Prom Ended Early” or “The Spy Agency Wasn’t Hiring.”

 

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