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Re-Gifting to Myself

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Christmas morning I was awakened from my deep slumber by the blast of my combo iPod/Lawn Mower/Alarm clock playing of all things, “Silent Night”. I sprang out of bed … well sprang is the wrong word since it is obvious my spring has sprung, I crawled out of bed because my head was filled with so much good cheer from last night’s festivities. I had imbibed lots of eggnog but purely for health reasons. Calcium; good for the bones, you know.

I struggled to the living room to retrieve my gift, which I knew I would be getting because I had been very good, frankly against my better judgment. I really like to be bad but there seems to be less opportunity recently.

I opened the box gingerly and lo and behold I encountered the most exquisite peignoir set this side of Jean Harlow. The sheer down to here, primrose nightgown was trimmed with a scarlet boa. The voices on the couch urged me to try it on. I remember when shouts from a crowd usually said, “Take it off. Take it off.” Now I am always hearing, “ICK! Put it on for God’s sake.”

I prefer not to be in see through anything, cause as Phyllis Diller once said about her self, “My bra size is 40 long!”

I changed into the lovely outfit and immediately felt a draft.

After a forced, “you look good” and muttering, “now we can get back to the game” they left the room. Personally, I don’t understand football. Instead of making the guys maim and beat the hell out of one another why don’t they just give each guy his own ball then he could go home make love to his lady. But I digress.

Confession Time

This is what I did the minute they were out of sight. I ran to the Goodwill bag where my criminally guilty family members had once again stuffed my wonderfully soft, faithful rag of a bathrobe. They had tried this ploy for years thinking maybe if they bought me something nice I’d get rid of this Schmateaux. I had tried doing this myself many times but good sense would prevail and I’d reclaim it from the pickup man explaining I was saving it for very poor derelict I had befriended. Even he said, “Gee, sorry. She really must be in bad shape”!

Originally, when I had purchased the bathrobe it looked like a picture out of Vogue Magazine. But from constant washings it had faded and shrunk. I often get chapped hips when I wear it. The sleeves are frayed, the flowers have blown away, and the soft yellow has become a nasty shade of Puce. I do not dispute that. Still, the moths have thoughtfully eaten through the shoulders in a very creative pattern. The quilting has matted in big clumps looking like shoulder pads that Joan Crawford would envy. I love my bathrobe.

Speaking of love, in the middle of night when the demons come out to play in my head, what do I reach for? Not a strange sailor boy! I’ve stopped doing that. I reach for instead, the one constant in my life, the one that has always been there when my other clothes have become tight. (They seem to shrink in the closet). Do you have the same problem? I would say it was a Communist plot but there aren’t any. It is so annoying. There is absolutely nobody to blame anymore. Yes, I reach for it! I am talking about my loyal robe. I am not unique.

Everyone has something they are attached to. Some men have old sweaters, slippers, or girlfriends. Babies have blankies. Why am I singled out? At least I don’t suck my thumb … and have not since June. How many of you have a favorite shirt, dress, chicken outfit or jeans? You know you do. Why don’t you reveal it to me? You will feel better.

The truth is the robe has been nicer to me than I have been to it. I’ve never been caught wearing it except by immediate family and they are too humiliated to discuss it outside our circle. As soon as I hear the doorbell, I change into something more provocative like painter’s pants and army boots. Let’s face it, I could keep the more attractive peignoir set but that would only create problems. Word would get out that I look spiffy and then rich, handsome men would, once again, hound me. I remember when I was really attractive it created terrible ankle problems because I had to keep kicking throngs of gorgeous guys out of my way. Thankfully it is no longer an issue. Even at my yearly checkup, the doctor insists that I not disrobe. Just yesterday one said, “For goodness sakes, please keep your clothes on. I am your dentist.”

So Santa, you might as well stop this yearly stunt. Stay out of Victoria’s Secret or I will be forced to actually reveal her secret, which just so happens to concern you and Mrs. Claus’s sister. As long as there is thread of material or a button hanging in there, so shall I. I will keep and covet the old faithful cover-up. As matter of fact I’d like to be buried in it.  

By the way, in case you are with me when that happens, please place my body on Sean Connery’s lawn. Let me explain my reason. I have noticed no matter what one looked like while alive, whenever a dead female body is found with a celebrity, the media always says “Stunning blonde found bludgeoned or slain Attractive brunette discovered with star”. Imagine the fun in Sean’s house when he has to explain me to his wife.

At the same time perhaps my robe will finally get the notoriety and true respect it deserves. Hopefully Joan River’s will ask, “Who was she wearing"?

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