When exactly did it become acceptable to wear one’s pajamas in public?

For years, this practice was most commonly seen in Wal-Marts across the country. But the increasing trend of folks strutting around in their pajamas in stores, restaurants, and hotel lobbies has now reached epidemic proportions.

Some hotel guests feel that by paying for a room, they have the right to flaunt their slovenly look, modeling whatever they’ve slept in from the night before. I see no reason to wear pajamas in a hotel dining room unless you’re a one-year-old.

It’s not as if I’m staying at the No-Tell Motel or the Fleabag Inn. I’m talking about nice, clean, established hotel chains and some of the high-end variety. In one instance, an entire family came down to the hotel lobby in matching pajamas, looking quite pleased with themselves.

Does wearing matching pajamas and slippers make it better? No. No, it does not.

If your household routine consists of rolling out of bed, shuffling to the kitchen for your morning grub while enthusiastically scratching the family jewels, then please, I beseech you—do not do this in hotel dining areas. Although considered a helpful appetite suppressant, it is nonetheless repulsive.

In my novel, Solitary Refinement, Angela Morgan begins obsessing over rude individuals and their nasty habits. She dreads the idea of traveling and tires of interacting with a disrespectful society.

In the following excerpt, Angela recounts her disdain for uncivilized people as she reflects on her stay at a posh hotel.

I’m sorry if you hate your life and you’ve completely given up, but could you not wear your natty pajamas to breakfast? It’s bad enough to stand in an elegant buffet line with your greasy, uncombed bed heads, butt cracks, tramp stamps, exposed back hair, and braless, drooping boobies. That alone can cause a bile-rising disturbance.

Though if sloppy appearances and a mannerless society is not enough to stomach, it turns out, it can be worse.

Standing at the restaurant buffet, I held out my plate as the server carved a slice of prime rib. “Au jus?” he asked. Before I could answer, my attention turned to a man sauntering by wearing tattered pajama bottoms (commando style) and a soiled wife-beater undershirt. His hair stood on end and his chin was generously smattered with beard stubble.

My eyes wandered down to his bare, yeast-encrusted feet and thick, yellow toenails, so long they were clacking on the floor. Other diners stopped eating, utensils suspended in mid-air. Those who were present to bear witness to this event looked quite horror-struck. Still, no one spoke up.

So I did.

“Hey you—Foot Fungus!” I shouted, “Put some shoes on!”

I’m not the etiquette police, nor a budding fashion plate. I buy my clothes at Costco and have been known to peruse thrift stores looking for a bargain. But what I do know is this: Lazy is not a virtuous quality. Soap and water is your friend. And quit trying to mask body odor with perfume—it’s not called a whore’s bath for nothing. It doesn’t work, and I can only hold my breath for so long in a crowded elevator.

It’s not necessary to wear a tuxedo or flowing chiffon ball gown to breakfast. But please people—make an effort. Have some respect for yourself and others. At the very least, throw on a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. Comb your hair. Wear deodorant. Run a toothbrush over your pearly whites or gargle with something. Anything! And don’t forget the shoes. Even flip-flops will do.

During a recent trip, my faith in humanity was temporarily restored. One hotel, in an attempt to enforce the health code and discourage the inconsiderate act of going barefoot, posted a simple sign: Must Wear Shoes in the Dining Room.

It’s a start. But until they add Don’t Wear Pajamas to Breakfast, I’m staying home.