It was at least a decade old. Probably older. The sad truth is, I think it was a knock-off of an item of clothing worn on FRIENDS. It was big and blue, with a motif of giant coffee cups. I adored it.
It had worn bald in spots. I think it was beginning to give me a rash. Over a dozen years, subtracting an average of 65 nights per year for travel, it was probably worn 3,600 times. And washed, gee, at least twelve times.
Kidding about the last stat. Then again, that could explain the rash. That, or the bald patches.
I put it in the trash Saturday, purchased a new one. May is not the best time to buy a new bathrobe. Choices are limited. The new one is sleek and soft and stretchy, but a little short. I could never, for example, go outside and move my car to a legal space while wearing this robe.
I weeded a lot of clothing out of my life over the weekend, although probably not enough. I packed away the jeans that are currently too large because — know thyself — they will probably fit again, sooner than I’d like to think. I filled one Hefty bag with give-aways, another with things that no one else should even touch (bye, bathrobe) and a third with things that I should give away, but I can’t, for sentimental reasons.
My “Goodbye, Evening Sun” T-shirt went into the trash bag. That was hard, but it is a rag, frayed and tattered. (It had a replica of the Evening Sun’s last front page, with the wonderful headline, “But will you love us in the morning?”) I decided that no one needs 22 white T-shirts and edited those down to a reasonable amount.
My closet is a much sparer place now, filled with items, all of which fit me and 70 percent I actually wear on a regular basis. (Currently on an anti-blouse kick. Do blouses actually flatter any female figure?)
I miss my bathrobe.
Stories of mourned clothing, please, after the jump. The nastier, the better.