Mid Life Crisis

I am an adulterer.

I'm not proud of it, but it is what it is.

See, for decades, basically since I was out of footie jammies, I've not been a lounge-around-in-a-robe sort of person. It's not that I don't own a robe. I own a perfectly fine robe. Its got flowers on it. Blue and maroon ones, if you will know, lined in a blue terry-cloth. It wraps around and ties with a tie and hangs to the mid-calf. I wear it when I'm ill or chilly of an early morning. A perfectly fine robe that, as it does fairly light duty as a garment, is only washed a few times a year and is only slightly rattier than the day it was bought, I'm guessing some 20 or more years ago. I'm pretty sure I got it to go to college, primarily for schlepping down the hall to and from the dorm showers, again of an early morning. So, as you can see, Faithful Flower Robe was set to go through life with me and would probably have attended me on my death bed, should I have died of an early morning, before a shower.

You can see where all this is going, of course. I'm led to believe that this is how most affairs occur. You truly aren't looking. Perhaps you've wondered about it, why others seem so enamored with their robes that they seem to seek out their company. They speak of whole days lounging around together, reading or watching romantic movies, sharing a carton of ice cream, falling asleep together on the couch. But not me. No. FFR was perfectly comfortable, if neither handsome nor sexy. Why jepordize a nice, stable relationship. I'm not that sort of person.

And then, there I was, of an early Friday afternoon, killing time while Lilian was doing her time in rehab (cardiac, not ilicit substances; what kind of folk do you think we are?), wandering around the town's Shopko, looking at this and that, and what do I spy? A table with these young, nubile, soft robes piled on top. On sale. Before I knew what I was doing, I was fondling them. Surely there won't be one in my size.

There were two.

Surely they must be flawed: Bad breath. Some odd ink stain on the front. Dry clean only. But no. Pretty, washable, no embarassing ink tattoos in visible places, and a cheap date at under $ 20. Before I knew it, I had chatted him up, plopped him in the cart, whisked him home, washed him (who knows whose grubby hands had been on him before I found him?) and, before dinner was even thought of, I was wrapped in his arms. And since then, I've looked for any excuse to curl up with him. Instead of a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, when I come home, it's straight for him. He's had to be washed twice in two weeks after two unrelated food incidents marred his good looks, and he just gets softer. I find that wearing him over sweats just isn't nearly good enough and have taken to wearing shorts and a t-shirt in Wisconsin in January, so I can feel him snuggly 'round my arms and legs. If I lived alone, I'm sure I'd wear even less, channeling that wretched Brooke Shields / Calvin Klein ad from 20 years ago, "Nothing comes between me and my {obscenely soft robe}."

And the worst of this? Where have I installed Obscenely Soft Robe? In my closet, on the same hook as Faithful Flower Robe. FFR has to know about us, despite my tale of telling him that OSR and I are just friends and that I'm doing OSR a favor by spending time with him when I'd clearly rather be with FFR. I mean, they must talk, mustn't they? The sweaters on the facing shelf must also be aware, them and the shoes (such a clique-y bunch, the shoes) which means the rest of the closet knows. How can FFR hold his head up? I should do the right thing and just end it all, once and for all, with OSR, but here I am, on the couch, wrapped in his soft embrace and I know I'm not strong enough. Plus, I can't return him. I've lived in him for two weeks and I'm pretty sure I've (ahem) lost the reciept.

But there may be another side to this, which occurred to me as I saw them together this morning, sharing a hook, sleeve-by-sleeve. I wonder if OSR may possibly be sharing his affections when I'm not around.

If so, I don't want to know.