I'm Not Gonna Lie by George Lopez

be exact. I have accumulated twenty or thirty really nice pajama bottoms in all different patterns and colors—red, white, and blue; dark green; purple; purple and gray; stripes; solids; flannels; all kinds—because when I was a kid, I never slept in pajamas. We couldn’t afford them. In the winter I slept in my jeans, and in the summer I slept in my underwear. I didn’t like sleeping in my jeans, because my legs would sweat no matter the temperature and I would stick to the denim. It would be like sleeping in a thick, heavy, stiff sack. But I
hated
sleeping in my underwear. I was a restless sleeper, and I would toss and turn and get all tangled up. I’d wake up with both my legs jammed into one leg hole. Felt unbelievably weird and uncomfortable. I also looked like a bell with my legs sticking out together as the clapper. I vowed that if I ever made any money, I’d buy myself really comfortable pajamas.
    Here’s how much I love pajamas:
    I want to be buried in them.
    Why not?
    People say death is like sleeping, right? That doesn’t sound bad. I love to sleep. And if I’m gonna be sleeping for all eternity, I’m wearing pajamas. I think funeral directors agree with me, because they always put a pillow in the casket. So forget the stiff black suit that they put on the stiff. And the uncomfortable dress shoes. I want to wear my pajamas and my slippers.
    I’m so happy that I wear pajamas to bed that I resent getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I just want to stay snug under the covers. I’ve actually considered keeping one of those little bottles that the hospital puts right by the side of the bed, just in case. Then when I got the urge in the middle of the night, all I would have to do is roll over.
    In the meantime, I hit the head the way most normal men over the age of fifty do—every couple of hours, like clockwork. I always keep an extra pair of pajama bottoms handy, though, just in case during one of my bathroom runs I accidentally dribble a little pee onto my pajama bottoms. It can happen. In that case, I swap out my old pajamas and pull on the spare pair. No big deal. I’ve learned to do this in the blink of an eye. It’s like changing the tires at NASCAR, except I’m a pit crew of one.
    I’ve also learned to let your dreams be your cue. Doing this can save a two a.m. pajama-bottom swap-out. If you find yourself suddenly lost in a lovely dream in which you’re wading in a beautiful warm stream, so warm and soothing that you can actually
feel
the water, force yourself to wake up, because you’re about to ruin that really expensive pair of flannel pajamas that you bought at Barneys. Yes, that stream is about to overflow into your pants. I guess that’s why they call these the golden years. I used to think the name came from Greek mythology and the ages of man. No. It doesn’t. These are the golden years because there’s a real good chance you’ll be peeing in your pants.
    So, back to the morning routine. You’ve peed, checked yourself in the mirror, and it’s time to step into the shower. I find that first shower exhilarating. I take my time, scrub myself, and enjoy the heat of the wet bristles of water softly pummeling my body. Now, a very important pointer:
    Everybody should have a robe. Doesn’t matter how old or young you are, you need a robe. If you’re young, then you can pretend you’re hiding something wonderful. A surprise. A gift. Even if you know what the gift is, it’s always better to wrap it up. Much more exciting that way.
    If you’re over fifty, don’t worry about giving anybody a gift. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m now at the age when I look better clothed than naked. So, definitely, keep your body wrapped up. And keep a robe close. You don’t want to have to walk across a room to get to your robe. You do not want to take the chance