[wherein I type for five straight minutes stopping only when the timer goes ding]
I’ve become someone who relies heavily on her bathrobe.
I’m talking emotional weight, here. I’ve had only a few bathrobes in my lifetime, but the one I have now is definitely the topper. It’s a hand-me-down from C, so it’s like a large, snuggly blanket. I have to doubleknot the tie to keep it together, but this is part of it’s charm.
The bathrobe, I’ve noticed, has a numbing quality. If not removed before midday, it quells me into a kind of blank-eyed, slumpy hillock.
I shuffle around, doling catfood into the dish and leaving kleenex everywhere.
The bathrobe is a kind of Roman indulgence for me. They ate reclining, I exist shrouded in chenille.
C has a new bathrobe, from a show he did in NY, and it’s pretty nifty. When we wear our bathrobes together, we look like we’re part of a gothic spa (they’re both black).
My very first bathrobe was from VIctoria’s Secret (it isn’t really, is it?) and was purple plush terrycloth. After one washing, it shrunk upwards about three feet. Terrycloth bathrobes make poor blazers.
My second bathrobe was given to me by my ex-mother-in-law, and it had a long zipper. Unfortunately, my morning motor skills are such that just getting the zi