Deb: I love new things.
If this is coming as a surprise to you then ... WELCOME to the Middle Ages
Blog! You must be new! I love love love new things. I love it when they are
new, when they still have their tags on, unworn and full of promise. I love the
first time I put something new on, fresh from its closet house, ready to strut
its stuff. It’s always exciting for a new outfit as it steps out into the
world, waiting with bated breath for admiring glances, compliments, and the
ultimate kudos for new hopeful ensembles: the coveted, “Where did you get that
outfit?”
So it got me to thinking
as I packed for our trip to the Yukon how odd it is that there are some things
I do not like new. I seem to be
attached to the strangest oldest things in my life and I cannot make sense of
it. Examples include my little make-up bags with the Dick and Jane characters fabric and the Doc Marten shoes with the
leopard print I bought ten years ago.
The other day I was
hanging up my housecoat when it came out of the laundry and noticed a small
tear in the shoulder. It can be easily fixed I thought, but it got me to
pondering the length of time I have had my bathrobe. I surmised that it must be
upwards to eighteen years. Honestly, eighteen years. Am I too lazy to go shopping
for a new one? Hardly! I love to go shopping for ... anything! So what is it,
thought I? Well, it’s because I am attached to it emotionally. Attached to it
like it were a person or an animal or ... a bathrobe, which it is! It’s like a
friend, my bathrobe. It is all baby blue chenille with white stars and a yellow
crescent moon on it. It is an inanimate object. And it is my friend. My
intimate friend.
My housecoat is my go-to
for comfort. I think many women feel this way. When I have had a long hard day
or even when the light leaves early in the winter months and I come through the
door, my welcome and my comfort always comes from my boys, my dogs, and my
bathrobe. At this point I might be inclined to say, “Not necessarily in that
order,” but I won’t!
My bathrobe and I have been
through many colds and flus together, many tears and sadness together, and
numerous Buffy the Vampire Slayers
and Doris Day movies, which my bathrobe loves!
We have cooked breakfast and collected the newspaper together, taken out
garbage cans and recyclers, and picked up dog poo. Housecoat is part of my
unglamorous life, my real life. It knows all my intimate details and that’s why
I love it. We fit, the two of us, all sloppy and oversized, into the coziest
part of my existence. We understand each other and never judge. If my teeth are
unbrushed or housecoat has dried egg on its sleeve, we are still good. We are
solid. No need for explanations. We are still as attracted to each other as we
were on the first day we met, fresh faced and fresh price-tagged.
And I know there will
come a day when it becomes threadbare and we will have to part. The fact that
the day has not come before this is shocking and sweet. Housecoat hangs in
there because it knows that I depend on it. And when the day dawns when it
cannot take another mending, I will gently cut the moon and one star out of its
faithful self and sew it into a small pillow full of lavender to keep.
And then I will go on the
only shopping trip of my life I don’t look forward to.
Barbara: I know Housecoat!!
I don’t know why I feel so proud to be able to say this, but I do—I know
Housecoat and I love her. She IS cozy and sweet. And utterly Deb. (And I can
also confirm from personal experience that Deb really truly does normally like
things new—in fact, I have been the happy recipient of a few hand-me-downs …
that still have their price-tags on…) But as I was reading this adorable post, I was already racking my brain for my own story of Housecoat. I even started to write
my corresponding sentence, “I too have my old…” and then couldn’t think of one
damn thing. Not to say that lots of my stuff isn’t old, but that I don’t hold
onto it because it means a lot to me. I’m always surprised to realize how
relatively un-nostalgic I am. I kinda
feel like I ought to be—not by “judgment” standards, but by the way connection
is, in other cases, sooo important to me. So today I will live vicariously
through you, Deb. Because it sounds awfully lovely.
