I've known this day was coming for a while. Yesterday, I had to say goodbye to my favorite comfy pants.

The day I met my Jammie Pants was back in my old life, before we downsized to our Cozy Cottage. We were living in the Big House, strapped with a crushing mortgage payment, limited by one income, and managing a gaggle of adorable children at home who had wants and needs that eclipsed my own. In those days, it was a treat for me to head to the thrift store, perusing the aisles for items that were barely used. Some thrift store trips were a bust; but sometimes you'd find a treasure, and always at an affordable price.

The Jammie Pants alone would've been enough, but there they were, with the matching top. An entire pajama ensemble, barely used. They were soft, elasticized, and perfectly my size.

The bright, colorful stripes came to symbolize what these Jammie Pants meant to me: putting them on in the evenings, I was declaring that I'd made the decision to put a lid on the day; I would no longer leave the house, but I also wasn't opposed to some spontaneous partying in the living room or dancing in the kitchen. These technicolor pants came to symbolize comfort and safety and self care. 

I think I thought Jammie Pants and I would always be together.

The last few months, I've tried to ignore how threadbare they were getting. The waistline was getting frayed around the elastic, but what did it matter? But the hole … when I saw the hole near the front seam, I knew our time was nearing an end.

Most worn-out clothes end up in the rag pile at the Cozy Cottage, but not these Jammie Pants. I just can't relegate them to dusting or wiping down the bathroom floor. Jammie Pants deserve a more dignified retirement. I might leave them on my closet shelf for a little while, neatly folded with the hole obscured from sight. Each time I look at them, I'll remember what they taught me about rest and relaxation and the value of not being afraid to let your colors show.