Tatiana Castillo
And so I poured myself a glass of wine and I grabbed a couple of grilled shrimp.
It was around ten at night, but I needed to give myself a dose of elegance—to end the day pretending to be that woman with a sophisticated palate. I had just finished cooking the ordinary food I pack for the week. My hair smelled like oil and my feet were tired. I crossed my leg and sat, elegantly.
In the name of female autonomy in adulthood—keeping sensuality for myself, claiming style and fashion as my own choice—I bought myself satin pajamas. It was an act of rebellion, caught between adulthood, comfort, and self-determination. I had always wanted elegant pajamas, but my youthful, practical mind pushed me toward old T-shirts—the most comfortable ones.
Finally, reasoning through economic autonomy and a sense of success, I bought the pajamas: one lilac-silver, one dusty rose, and one olive green. Elegant tones and classic designs, a style more romantic-sensual than childishly comfortable. Years ago, I abandoned teddy bears and little strawberries on sleepwear. Satin and serious colors make me feel mature. I’m thirty. They help me go to bed early, brush my hair, clean my teeth, and apply a bit of retinol—religiously. Perhaps the pajamas were only the beginning of a new rhythm. I went to bed and fell asleep.
It’s 6:30 in the morning, and although I could stay under the covers for another half hour, my biological alarm won’t allow it. In my early twenties, I longed to wake up early and not rush through chores to get to school or work; now, in later youth, there is no battle with the blankets, no justified sleeplessness. Some call it maturity—I think it’s repetition. Routine.