Pajama recommendations: not worth the effort

Last night, after returning from a rare one-two party punch - a Derby soiree complete with juleps, wide-brimmed hats and more than a few seersucker and white linen dress coats, followed by a surprisingly equally-well-attired De la Hoya/Mayweather viewing - I couldn't wait to unzip my dress, unfasten my so-effective-it-actually-earns-its-ridiculous-sounding-name Infinity Edge strapless bra, wriggle out of my boyshorts, kiss my doodlebug on his under-belly, wash, exfoliate and astringent my face, lotion every body part with its respective specialty moisturizer, tune into "Repo Man: Stealing for a Living, Island Special" and dive into the pint of Caramel Cone ice cream I'd scooped up on the walk home.

The perfect ending to an absolutely lovely but small-talk-saturated Saturday night.

As I laid there on the couch, spoon in one hand, universal remote in the other, watching Samoans the size of offensive tackles creeping around tropical trailer parks with orange-camo cargo pants and stun guns engaging in 3am confrontations with furious long-sleeved t-shirted, sweatpanted women, I thought to myself, "T-shirts and sweatpants to bed? In Maui? Really?"

While chewing on that thought, "Repo: Island" led into "Repo: Frontier" and then finally, "Repo: Mexican Border." But as the backdrops shifted from tropical to tundra to desolate-desert, in each one, the sexy, scratchily-delivered "We're just here to take your car, ma'am," the liquor-fueled volatility, and the curiousness of women's pajama selections - oversized t-shirts and bare feet in northern Minnesota and flannel nightgowns in El Paso - remained the same.

I looked down, took stock of my own rather bare sleepwear and thought to myself, "I wonder what other women in this city wear to bed?"

I'm sure the answer to this question is a complicated one dependent on several factors, including weather, age, mood, and perhaps most influential of all, relationship status. I'm also sure there's no point in recommending what I or any of my friends like to wear to bed to anyone else, because like a shower routine, some things are so deeply personal and impervious to outside input that to try to change or influence them is as futile an exercise as watching American Beauty and expecting Lester to one day suddenly wake up pleased with his hellish situation.

After pondering for an hour or so of how best to turn this question of pajama preference into a post, I finally realized my efforts were better served relocating from the couch to the bed, eating another serving of ice cream and flipping through my just-delivered Us Weekly.

After lambasting the victims in the 'Fashion Police' features and taking another look at the half-Asian gorgeousness that is Vanessa Minnilo on the cover, a yawn set in, followed by two more, and I decided it was time for bed. Placing my reading glasses on the bookshelf adjacent to the headboard, I looked down at Monte - his head resting on my right calf, the mid-point of his little body tucked neatly between my knees - and let out a little laugh.

"Silly Mommy," I said with a Trix-are-for-kids pitch.

Then I switched off the light, gave the little bean a scratch on his head and remembered this time to kick off my heels before falling asleep.