Pajama Fever

The story of a brave, young woman who fell under the thrall of premium sleepwear

The first step of overcoming any addiction is admitting you have a problem, or so I’ve heard. Which is why in April of this year I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “You can’t keep buying high quality pajama sets online, Keara. You can’t keep living like this. It’s just gotten ridiculous.” I really meant it too. This was no moment of high self drama - this was a display of raw objectively brave vulnerability. So think about that before you start yukking it up! 

Preceding and prompting this gritty self confrontation was an eight week period in which I purchased six separate pajama sets. That’s just too many pajamas. I can admit that now. But it wasn’t always such an easy pill to swallow. Had you asked me about my exploding nightwear drawer back in March, I would have said something like, “Oh, those pesky ole dresser drawers! I can never fully close these things!” Then I’d muster up all the brute force available to me and try once more to jam the drawer closed, leading my dresser to explode like a cartoon barrel full of TNT. 

I am naturally a bit embarrassed at my choice of addiction. While a reliance on alcohol or drugs is far more life-ruining, it also carries with it a certain… mystique, shall we say. For writers, shirking society and living one’s later years in alcoholic reclusion just goes to elevate your status as a “troubled genius.” Some might argue that having one’s liver look more like a deep-fried turkey leg than actual human organ is a fair price to pay for an assured legacy. It’s not like anyone’s ever been remembered for their exceptionally healthy liver at time of death anyways. But personally, I don’t see much value in people singing my praises if I’m not around to hear them. I’d also hate to be judged by my future mortician for poor organ health - that’s just embarrassing, regardless if I can hear it from the afterlife or not. 

But back to pajamas. It all started last Christmas when I asked for a limited-edition New Yorker pajama set. They were bright green and dotted with dainty white cats and affectionately titled “The Cat’s Pajamas.” The kind of pajamas a cultured, metropolitan woman could wear. The mere act of adding the pajamas to my wishlist alone was enough to fill me with a sense of artistic snobbery. Imaginary conversations in which I’d say things like, “Oh, you’re asking for an iPad this Christmas? Well, I’m asking for limited edition New Yorker pajamas. I guess I just have a bit more erudite, aesthetic tastes than most,” started to play on loop in my mind. I should have known then that I was doomed to fall down a slippery slope… but it was too late. I had already sent my mother the link. 

I donned my Cat’s Pajamas first thing Christmas morning and immediately fell under their thrall. Though I’d expected the pajamas to make me feel a bit classier, I hadn’t expected to feel like a wholly different person. They were less sleepwear and more a costume, one that allowed me to cosplay as a modern woman about town. The kind of woman who understands the importance of presentation, the kind of woman who handwashes her delicates instead of throwing them in the laundry load, the kind of woman who I’ve always wanted to be! 

Accompanying the pajamas proper was a matching sleep mask that served the same function as a pair of fully immersive virtual reality goggles. I spent the remaining nights of the year sliding the mask on and dreaming up universes worthy of my pajama set. I pictured myself sitting at the vanity table in an imaginary boudoir. It’s one of the smaller rooms inside me and my husband’s luxurious Plaza Hotel apartment (which we OWN by the way) but in this universe I’ve always preferred a cozier aesthetic. I wear my Cat’s Pajamas and delicately remove my REAL diamond earrings. I spot my shy, gay son named Barnabus watching me in awe from the doorway. When he goes on to compete in RuPaul’s Drag Race in 14 years time, he’ll recall how me, his mother, was always “so composed” and “never had a hair out of place.” I shoo him away with instructions to make sure Alistair, our dalmatian, has enough water for tonight. And then I’d wake up. 

After a week of consistent nightly use, the pajamas demanded a wash. With my beloved sleep set making its way through the rinse cycle, I was forced to return to my old way of life for the night. I plundered around the apartment in one of my dad’s old, knee-length marathon shirts and a pair of drawstring sweatpants that read “Leah’s Bat Mitzvah.” When I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror I froze in fear as I assumed some kind of vagrant boxcar hobo had broken into my home. Even more frightening was the realization that this trespassing hobo was me, Keara Sullivan. Chilled to the bone, I marched to the computer and opened the pajama section of Nordstrom.com - the moment I now recognize as the beginning of my descent into pajama madness. 

Six days after my online Nordstrom spree I became the proud owner of a new silk set and a 100% cotton shamrock tee and shorts combo. With three separate pajama sets in my possession, my collection should have been complete. But I didn’t want it to be over… I wanted more. So naturally, I convinced myself that I needed more. Had you possessed the ability to read my mind during this period you would have heard something like, After all, no pajama collection would be complete without a classic flannel look, right? And I really ought to have a dainty camisole set handy for when the hot summer nights roll around. I mean, that’s just forward thinking! Oh and I almost forgot - I need a nightgown! Maybe even two nightgowns, come to think of it! One shorter gown for when the air conditioner in my apartment breaks and one long, victorian-horror-movie-inspired gown that I can wear when the Ghost of Christmas Past comes to visit me this December. Then you probably would’ve walked backwards very slowly from me as if it were a grizzly encounter in Yosemite. Because obviously, I was too far gone. 

How do we reach a person who has descended into madness? How do we show someone the light? Professional addiction groups recommend the intervention and rehab process. Experts on the topic of political de-radicalization recommend the one-two combo of empathetic listening followed by non-combative counterarguments. But if you’ve descended into a rather uncommon, sleepwear-related sort of madness, none of these strategies will do the trick. No, there’s only one known cure for pajama fever: The Internal Revenue Service. Arguably the most powerful force on earth. I learned this the hard way last April. After six straight weeks of living in a pajama shopping fugue state, my father emailed me with the amount I owed the IRS this year. The subject line of the email simply read, “Ouch.” 

As it turns out, self-employment taxes are a thing and apparently they are expected to be paid quarterly. My savings account was the flourishing city of Pompeii. My 2024 tax return? Mount Vesuvius erupting. When the ash and smoke finally cleared over the rubble of my financial empire, aka my not great but still arguably solid savings account, I saw before me the two paths my future could take. The first path led to me sleeping penniless on the side of the highway in a fort made out of my flannel-lined sets. I looked content enough, in a dreamy sort of way, but it was hard to get a read on my true emotions through the three sleep masks covering my entire face. The second path led me here: to writing this essay, to living for the days instead of the nights, and to realizing that what matters more is what you wear when you’re awake.