Brian eyed me up and down the other day and began to laugh. He noticed the same thing that I had spotted the day before: It seemed that somehow, in my groggy, morning fog, I had spilled coffee all over myself. There were tracks and trails of brown running down my minty-green-with-white-polka-dots robe.
I love this robe. I love any robe that will keep me a few degrees warmer.
Brian hates this robe. He hates any robe that makes me look like the Michelin Man. He also hates loungewear that emits too wholesome of a vibe. (I’ve long since gotten rid of the nightgown that he dubbed “The Chastity Gown.”)
Me, “I have good news.”
Brian, “Yeah? What’s that?”
Me, “I washed my robe. It’s slightly less disgusting now.”
Brian, “You know what great news would have been?”
Me, “I burned it?”
…Not a chance, Brian. Not a chance…