“What did you do this weekend?”
Every single Monday morning, I am asked that question. And every single Monday morning, I struggle to find an answer cool enough to fit in with the wild n’ crazy lives of my peers.
“What did I do this weekend? HA, what didn’t I do?” I say while smiling widely, a few strained cackles escaping my lips as silent tears stream down my face.
The truth, however, is literally always the same thing: I spent every moment humanly possible lounging about my boudoir, engaging in as little strenuous activity as possible. Every weekend, however, I was also plagued by a disturbing feeling: although I enjoyed my relaxation time, I could never seem to be comfortable enough. There was always something holding me back, keeping me from taking my idleness to new heights.
Then, it hit me like a ton of bricks: it was my clothing! In today’s society, people are forced to have two sets of clothing, one for sleeping in and one for walking about in the real world. There’s little to no crossover between the two, leaving people no choice but to wear starchy T-shirts and stiff jeans if they want to look presentable. The problem with my relaxation time was that, at some point, I was expected to put on the clothes of the outside world to fit in with my brethren.
But I was SO WEAK. I needed something to help ease that transition along. Something that wasn’t quite a nightgown, but was also far from the clothes I wore in public. I needed to find the middle ground between blissful cotton and the uncomfortable confines of denim.
And find it I did: BATHROBES!
I remember when I first saw my bathrobe: I had been walking through the isles of Target aimlessly for almost an hour. There was a deep hunger withing me, but I instinctively knew that it was not for food. I hungered for something real, something I felt and yearned for but couldn’t see; I hungered for something almost primal, a feeling that had been trapped withing my soul, and the souls of all other human beings, since the dawn of mankind. I felt this hunger, but I had no idea how to satisfy it. It was at that moment that my entire world changed.
I turned to begin walking out of the store when, hanging on my left, was the most beautiful garment I had ever seen. My bathrobe swayed majestically in the wind, its regal leopard print pattern glowing alluringly under the florescent lights. Time stood still as I lifted it from a rack of clothing and clutched it against my chest. I breathed in the sweet fragrance of the robe, and in that moment, I knew I was home. The hunger had been eradicated.
My family members have expressed their doubts on the matter, but I believe that the sole reason the universe exists, that all mankind was called to life, was for me to find my bathrobe.
My bathrobe loves me like no human ever could: It wraps itself around me, whispering sweet nothings into my ears like,
“Kiana, there’s no need for homework tonight. There’s a new episode of Scandal on!”
“Kiana, you mustn’t practice your bassoon right now! Not when there are so many naps to be taken.”
I used to wear my bathrobe to ease my transition into the abyss that is the outside world, but now I never take it off. And why should I? Compared to robes, all other so-called “relaxation wear” are obsolete. One time, I strayed from my bathrobe for a night, and you know what? It was complete bullshit! The blanket kept falling off of me, exposing my flesh to the cold, calculated attacks of my environment. Harsh winds beat against me from all sides and for a moment, I tasted death. It’s a wonder that my life didn’t end right then and there from the destruction of my homeostasis, but somehow I survived. And not only did I survive, I thrived. I have been faithful to my bathrobe ever since.
The bathrobe is also unbeatable in it’s versatility. Look at all the things I can do while wearing a robe:
Talk on the phone!
Play with animals!
And last, but certainly not least, eat delicious, delicious pie!
Robes are a universal clothing item. Nobody looks bad in one. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror when I am wearing my robe, and I can’t tell myself apart from Tyra Banks, because I look so FIERCE. I suppose that’s partially because my robe is animal print, by I credit most of it to the inherent beauty that is sown into the fabric that all robes are made out of.
There is only one problem with the robe: extended periods of wearing tend to lead to disgust and self hatred. But all in all, I’d say the good far outweighs the bad. So do yourself a favor and hop on the robe train! Next Stop: Eternal happiness!