There's nothing like a new robe.
Mom, circa 1973, Buffalo, NY.
Some things are sacred to a man.
His brand of potato chips. His James Brown Live at the Apollo LP. The inviolability of his shaving razor. And, to be protected at any cost, his robe.
My flannel robe had been under attack by my wife for over a decade, possibly two. I could never really understand why. It was a “black watch” tartan pattern, soft as a misty day in the Scottish highlands, and I laundered it frequently, at least twice a year.
Actually, my wife had one main issue with it. The sleeves tended to droop down into my breakfast. They seem to be especially attracted to eggs.
I don’t see a big problem with this, gravity is gravity. If the sleeves got jam on them, it would serve as a pleasant reminder of a happy meal. And the longest it was going to stay on there was, as I indicated earlier, six months.
I loved that robe with a love that surpasseth spousal understanding. I swore I would never give it up.
Then, one morning, out of the blue, I ordered a new terry cloth robe. Maybe being home for months during the virus quarantine had something to do with it—I’ve been wearing a robe a lot. It seemed like an easy way to surprise and delight my wife.
But the real surprise was on me. I loved it. There was something about its plush look that made me feel royal, like the Cowardly Lion singing “If I Were King of the Forest.” I couldn’t have felt more kingly if the robe came with an ermine collar.
Now I understand why New York crime boss Vincent “the Chin” Gigante wandered Greenwich Village in his bathrobe and slippers. Maybe it wasn’t to bolster future insanity pleas. Maybe he was just proud of his robe. He wanted it to be admired, not only by his wife, but the whole neighborhood.
My mother had a quilted robe in the 1970s. A Christmas present from my father, it was orange and yellow, and had what appears to be a lace collar. Mom liked her robe, and what Buffalonian wouldn’t? It was warm. And that is ultimately what a robe is all about. Something to keep your fingers from freezing before you can wrap them around a mug of coffee.
I should have listened to my wife years ago. She’s right about these things 99% of the time.
So, thank you, old robe. I’ll always remember you with fondness.
That said, I’m going to enjoy my cushy new robe.
Best of all, at least for my wife?
The sleeves cling tightly to my wrists.
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