Menopause is weird.

One day you’re buying fitted blazers and pretending you enjoy underwire bras. The next, you’re standing in the middle of a thrift store lovingly rubbing a flannel nightgown against your cheek like you’ve discovered the Shroud of Turin.

Somewhere around age 50, elastic becomes everything.

Elastic waistbands. Elastic bras. Elastic expectations.

And then there are the flowers.

The florals. The lace collars. The tiny pink rosebuds marching across cotton as if to say, “You’ve had a good run, dear. Come sit by the fire.”

I see how it happened to our grandmothers.

For years, I judged them. The gowns. The housecoats. The quilted robes. The sensible slippers. Why, Grandma? Why the ruffles?

And then one day, I woke up and thought, “You know what sounds luxurious? A soft cotton nightgown with a Peter Pan collar.”

Menopause, friends. It’s a gateway drug.

My newest obsession is granny pajamas.

Well…not all of them. There are limits.

I’m talking about the good ones. Soft cotton gowns (a word I’ve always hated, by the way), lace collars, flannel pajamas with enough fabric to survive a Wisconsin winter and modest enough to wear in front of the UPS driver.

You know the kind.

The kind that had Grandpa giving Grandma ten babies while she made pot roast every Sunday and somehow never once Googled, “Is this normal during perimenopause?”

The other day, I found two pristine sets of flannel pajamas at our church thrift store. They still had the tags attached.

Spurgeon’s Department Store.

Door County, Wisconsin.

Price: $6.99.

I stood there holding them, immediately consumed with questions.

How did they get here?

Who bought them?

Why didn’t Grandma donate them when she realized she didn’t like them in 1987?

And most importantly…what was she thinking when she passed on these beauties?

The inventory tag said November 1987.

November!

These were almost certainly a Christmas gift.

I imagine some husband wandering through Spurgeon’s while Bing Crosby played overhead, thinking, “Edna’s going to love these.”

And maybe she didn’t.

Maybe she opened them, smiled politely, and thought, “Over my dead body.”

Or perhaps she tucked them away in a cedar chest, saving them for “someday” until someday quietly became nearly forty years ago.

Either way, they eventually found me.

And I couldn’t leave them behind.

I bought both pairs for $1 each.

Listen, I don’t need ten babies. (My estradiol levels would like to formally decline that invitation.) But I wouldn’t mind having all my bills paid.

As for whether these pajamas will inspire my husband in 2026 to the same degree they apparently inspired grandfathers in decades past, I’m skeptical.

But I’m willing to conduct a highly scientific experiment.

For research purposes, of course.

There is something comforting about realizing that maybe our grandmothers weren’t giving up after all. Maybe they had simply figured something out before we did.

Perhaps wisdom looks less like chasing trends and more like choosing softness.

Perhaps happiness is a lace collar, a cup of tea, and flannel pajamas that have waited patiently since November of 1987 to be loved.

And perhaps menopause isn’t stealing our youth.

Perhaps it’s introducing us to the women we were always meant to become.

Though I do draw the line at support hose.

For now.