I don't own any pajamas. I sleep wearing oversized tee shirts.
I don't have any flip flops, either. I cut them out of my wardrobe due to a traumatic accident that was caused by those treacherous things several years ago.
Garbage pickup was one particular morning, and I rushed out with a bag of garbage to add to the pile on the curb. It was early summer, and the front stairs were covered in dew/moisture.
My foot slipped on the first step. I used to live in an upper-floor triplex in Montreal, complete with the winding staircase, and down the stairs I went.
Tried to stop myself mid-flight but I couldn't.
I landed on the sidewalk at the bottom of the staircase, but not before my right foot was gashed to the bone by the wrought-iron staircase, of course.
I lay there and shook until Mr. Daynet rushed out, having heard my bumpy ride down the stairs. He picked me up in his arms and took me upstairs, where we tried to wash my wound. The bone in my right upper foot was showing - eww!
I had to have thirteen stitches in my foot as well as a horrible nay nay tetanus shot.
I'd rather wear Kiss Army platform boots any day of the week over flip flops. I'm serious.