Getting packed for the mission was disappointing for one reason only. Not because it was a reminder that I was leaving my family (and future family) for a year and a half. Not because I had packed into other boxes, reminders of what my joyful life had been for the previos 22 years.
THIS was the reason it was disappointing:
I spent $1000 dollars on new clothes that I didn't really like. Don't get me wrong, I was never once, a day in my mission, a frumpy missionary. I made an oath that I wouldn't be and I wasn't. This oath wasn't driven by vanity. It was driven by self-respect, and respect for the message I bore.
But the point is this: I made hundred dollar purchases on skirts that I did not want to immediately model for my mother and best friends when I got home from the store. And the shoes I bought--- there was no temptation to don them before the appropriate date. I never once lovingly opened my closet to look, and touch gently the new clothes that in just a few days would turn other's heads in admiration. That was not the nature of those clothes. Those clothes were professional. They were tidy. They were modest. And they were FRIGHTFULLY practical.
So, after all that spending, I decided against spending more on things like pajamas.They weren't going to be seen by anyone but roommates anyway. So I just took 2 pairs of drawstring flannels that had been purchased by my mother at the beginning of my freshman year of college. Make do...Remember? (Note: I left on my mission the middle of my senior year of college.)
While living with 5 other sister missionaries in Connecticut, Christmas was quickly approaching. We decided to draw names and give each other a small gift. Unbeknown to myself, my flannels had apparently hit rock bottom. I was made aware of this when, for Christmas, I was given the cutest pair of apple jammie bottoms I had ever seen. Attached was a note that said simply, "Now you can get rid of those nappy things you wear to bed every night." The epiphany was immediate. She was right. Those things were disgusting and I had just been ignoring it.
To make a long story short, let's just say that this entire scenario has repeated itself again this week. With I in my nappy jammie bottoms, and Paul in his let-me-make-her-life-better-attitude. I came home last Monday, to new, wonderfully comfortable pajama bottoms.
And here, finally, is the good idea. Paul, himself, dons some pretty sick flannels. The kind you can't wear anywhere but your own bedroom because the placement of their holes would make other people blush (or tell crude jokes. We do have 7 brothers between the two of us.) And FOR-THE-FIRST-TIME-EVER, I will be the Nappy Pajama-Bottom Rescuer. I will lay those sad puppies to rest. Wish me luck--I am going shopping!
