Well, I’ve reached rock bottom. If this is all I am able to string sentences together for, if this subject before any other is the one that occupies my thoughts, this blog is doomed. Again. And I had such high hopes for the new year.
I have decided to discard a close companion. You all know I’m capable of anything, but this is to be a particularly brutal departure. The object of my (formerly tender feelings, now only) derision is my bathrobe and it’s getting donated, pronto. Yes, just after I find a replacement, right then. Most likely.
My bathrobe and I have had some adventures together. About 2.35 hours of quality time and uncounted heaps of squandered hours, but who’s counting? It’s only natural that I would cast my mind back a tad and reminisce about our good times together. Go ahead and think of any cheesy 70’s song while you read this next bit. I’m thinking “That’s the Way (I Like It)” by K.C. and the Sunshine Band will put you in the right frame of mind, but far be it from me to deter you from the Bee Gees.
Things I have done in my pink, 100% polyester bathrobe:
1. chased a bear out of the curbside garbage bin. I wrote about it briefly somewhere on this blog. Don’t worry, I was waving a broken golf club and hurling cheap garden ornaments, so I was totally protected. The neighbors put API (Alaska Psychiatric Institute) and APD (Anchorage Police Department) on speed dial, just in case.
2. taken my daily walk. Now, now: on a treadmill (admit it, I had you thinking I was strolling around pre-dressed in public). Sometimes in my slippers or socks sans shoes. And working up a sweat is no problem with the belt cinched tight. It’s like a sauna without all the steam and naked people.
3. staggered to the shower after giving birth to a 9 pound toddler-sized baby. Of course I didn’t feel strong enough to walk just then, but who can say no to those strict labor and delivery nurses? When they strongly suggest you should shower, you don’t murmur “no, I’d rather sleep for 2 years, preferably heavily sedated followed by six months in a luxury spa,” you answer “yes, ma’am, right away.” If I’m ever involved in some sort of battle, say against Mel Gibson in blue face paint, I’d want a dozen of them on my side.
4. eaten my breakfast. And occasionally spilled a bit of it on “pinkie”, too. Don’t tell me you don’t drop crumbs on your lap! And please don’t tell mother I almost never put my napkin in my lap for breakfast (gasp!). I enjoy living on the edge sometimes.
5. opened Christmas presents. After watching the compulsory home movie afterwards, I determined that the camera’s 10 pounds and the bathrobe’s 10 pounds landed right on my midsection with a sliver diverted upwards as a second chin. No more bathrobes during filming.
Upon further reflection, I have decided no one gets to film me under any circumstances short of breaking some sort of Evel Knievel world record or winning a gold medal for Indispensable Contributions to Gardeners Everywhere. If Santa and I can come up with the door-to-door sales repelling plant, that should do it. Though banishing blue tarps from Alaska (nay, the world) would be a close contender. I’d start with the one in the above picture, which must bring tears to the hearts of all who see it. On a daily basis. Whether they want to or not. Presto, brown tarp!
I haven’t yet decided on a replacement. Silk? Cotton? They even make down robes these days, presumable for we dwellers of arctic regions. I do feel a natural fiber is in order this time, after encasing myself in something made in a vat for years. It needs to be soft, slimming, light as air, and have a long belt, for security. Sprints to the rubbish bin happen rather unexpectedly and we can’t be exposing ourselves to the neighbors now can we?
Is your bathrobe polyester? Fit to be seen in public?