One of the very thoughtful items that Santa put in my stocking was a gift certificate to a certain well-known lingerie store. This was due in large part to the fact that Santa had remarked that my undergarments looked like "something that someone who was institutionalized would wear, after they had been released and no longer had access to free state-issued underwear" and was giving me the clearest hint possible that I really needed to upgrade in that department. (So sue me. I still have nursing bras in my drawer and Terzo stopped nursing about the time I got my last pair of glasses. They're very comfortable, OK?)
Part of my problem here is that I do draw some lines in the sand, and one of them is that I will not purchase underwear in a thrift store, which I am sure that everyone is very relieved to know. Since that is my primary place to shop and I avoid the mall like the plague, this obviously presents a bit of a logistical issue.
Santa knows me very well, however, and was a bit leery when I came home tonight so excited about the perfect night ensemble I had found while shopping at the mall. He knows when I am sleeping, I dress like nanook of the north in this season, and he knows when I am awake, I like to be comfortable. So he wasn't getting his hopes up.
But I had found the perfect set of pajamas for a shepherdess! (Not at that lingerie store, obviously.)
A close-up so you can see that the wool is made up of little "baa"s (a detail I hadn't noticed until I got home, giving me cause to be even more pleased with them).
Really, how could I resist?
ETA: After I wrote this post last night, I was reading Laurie Notaro's The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death in bed and came upon this description of her underwear: "[I] wore that pair of underwear for so long that it was returned to its primal state as a loincloth, with an inch of fabric attached to the waistband in the front and another piece in the back, and [I] found it one day, garishly displayed on [my] dresser with a note that said 'I have served you well. Please release me,' scrawled in [my] husband's hand." I laughed so hard that I started to cry, probably motivated by with sheer relief that I am not the only one with such issues. Though I was trying not to make any noise -- hence the crying -- I shook the bed so forcefully with my giggling that I woke my LSH up.