My dear friend Graham gave me a robe for my birthday.
This isn’t your average robe. It’s from a really nice store.
It’s made of angel wings and lamb sneezes.
[Not really. But it is mucho soft.]
It may be one of the nicer things I own in my life.
Or at least I treat it as such.
I only wear it when I have time to really enjoy it. When I know I get to spend my morning at a slower pace. Though I look at it every day and actually sometimes wake up extra early just to make sure I have some robe time.
Maybe that’s weird. I dunno…..
It never Never NEVER hits the floor. I always hang it back up right where it should go. It’s possibly [and my roomie can confirm this] the only object that actually gets put in its place every. single. time.
It’s just so nice. It’s so beautiful and soft and a real treasure. I don’t want to spoil it or ruin it or leave it on the floor. I want to do all that I can to keep it in the best condition possible.
As I was drinking my chai on Saturday, dressed all warm and cozy in my pajamas and robe, I had a realization.
I treat my robe better than I treat my own body.
Better than I treat many of my possessions.
Better than I treat some of my friends.
And now, as I see the robe hanging on the back of my bedroom door, I stare at it and wonder why those statements are true.