The first I ever heard of the dangers of silky slick (aka
slicky) pajamas was when one of my mother’s sisters was demonstrating how yet
another sister had put on a little silk negligee with plans of a frisky trot
across the bedroom to throw herself seductively into the bed with her husband. That
was the plan. But, once that slicky negligee hit the sheets she had no traction
and slid right on past her bewildered husband and off the other side of the bed
onto the floor.
Should have been my warning.
It was decades later before I’d have my own perilous
experience with slicky pajamas, and it was all in an attempt to appreciate the
efforts of my daughter and her three-year-old son, my grandson. I had traveled to
spend some time with them in their home. They’d been busy to make an etagere
and small table for the guest room from a set of Omagles, a not well known but
remarkable building set for kids, a kind of giant Tinker Toy with PVC pipes and
connectors so that kid size tables, chairs, shelves or even riding toys and
more could be built. The table was colorful and was set with a nice tablecloth in
hopes that visitors (such as me) could enjoy morning coffee there by the window
in the guest room. Several days had passed since I’d arrived, and my grandson
had asked me if I’d used the special table yet for my coffee. It made me sad to
say, no, I had not yet used the pretty table, so I needed to remedy that.
One morning soon after that question, I made my coffee and
took it upstairs to the special table. I had my coffee in a thermos to keep it
warm, but had a nice mug to drink from. So, there I was, enjoying my coffee quietly
at the special table until I heard stirrings in the rest of the house as my
grandson and daughter began waking up. My daughter headed downstairs, and I gathered
up my coffee mug in my left hand, and my coffee thermos in my right hand to
head down as well to be sure my grandson could see that I’d had my coffee
upstairs by the special table.
To get downstairs I had two sets of about six wooden stairs
to navigate. First set down went fine, and I made the turn in my black slicky
pajamas and my slick bottomed house shoes to take the first step of the second
set of stairs. It was at that moment of one misplaced step that I knew all was
lost. I had no traction on the top step, my feet went out from under me, and with
absolutely no traction from my slicky pajamas or slicky housecoat to slow me
down or give any chance of my grabbing something – anything - I went down the
stairs on my backside like a lugeless slider: kaboom, kaboom, kaboom, kaboom,
kaboom, kaboom. Six kabooms later I was sitting silently on the foyer floor, stunned,
my mug still in my left hand, and the only sound being my metal thermos pinging
across the stone floor of the foyer. My daughter ran from a nearby room, she
also silent, I’m sure fearing she would find a limp GrandMaMa at the bottom of
the stairs. My grandson called from another part of the house, “what happened?!”
I was saved serious injury by the grace of God and a well
padded backside that is ridiculously bruised but which served me well. The
emotional trauma, however, was deep, and slicky pajamas have been added to my
list of the literal pitfalls of growing older. I’ve known the hazards and have
navigated throw rugs, power cords, and bathtub exits with extra care with each
passing year. But, who knew slicky pajamas needed to be added to the list of
hazards to both pride and body. Consider yourself warned.
And my grandson definitely knows I had coffee upstairs at the
special table.
