The year is 2061. A handsome, yet humble, young man sits at a table across from the show star. A well-heeled gentleman, sporting round tortoise shell glasses and a bow tie. He’s hoping to look “different” (just like everybody else). He carefully adds pristine white gloves to complete his quirky outfit. He takes out his official “Antiques Road Show” pointer and leans in to my great grandson as he grandly gestures to the item carefully hung above the table, “Let’s talk about your great grandma’s robe.”
Roughly a million years ago, my robe and I became entwined. It’s been so long that I don’t even recall how the robe came in to my possession. I may have bought it myself. It may have been the classic husband Christmas gift. I could’ve stolen it from my neighbor’s clothes line for all I know. Carbon dating would likely be required to determine it’s actual age, but I know that I can remember exactly how it fit during my pregnancies; the long broad belt barely connected in front of my distended belly. As a reminder, my BABY is 19. That means that every day I don a garment that is at least old enough buy alcohol.
It should probably be replaced, but we’ve been through so much together, it’s hard to consider letting go. It’s the robe I’ve worn to the Christmas morning “Santa came!” chaos. The robe I threw on when someone threw up. “Mommy, my stomach h….” you know the rest.
It’s been a part of my morning routine every single work day. Jobs changed, robe didn’t. It weighs roughly 15 pounds making it feel like the special apron the dentist makes you wear to get your teeth x-rayed. Is it way heavier than I need on hot Nor-Cal mornings. But I don’t care. I wear it and just accept the fact that my nose will sweat as I’m getting ready.
It hardly makes me a terry cloth temptress, but I’ll be still trying to justify my ownership of it.
“You can see this is by the maker ‘Delicates’ out of China,” the appraiser continues. “The tag is frayed, but you can still make out ‘mediano.’”
“GGMA was svelte but mighty” answers the boy (it’s my fake story. I’ll tell it how I want…Bwah!)
“It’s minty color maintains a lot of lot original luster. When she procured it, mint was a popular color. And then for a couple decades it wasn’t. And then it was again. She must have been very willful to hang on to it through all those significant robe fashion changes.”
Appraiser man furrows his brow, “However, we do have some condition issues. Here you can see that some of the terry cloth loops seem to have been ripped out.”
Handsome boy interjects, “I’ve been told that my great grandma spilled hot eyebrow wax on it.”
“Ah, that makes sense. Some of the people of those days were indeed too cheap and lazy to get their eyebrows done professionally.”
“Also, did she use to put out a fire? It’s difficult to determine the cause of these marks.”
“She didn’t know. She doesn’t even know how she got the robe.”
The two nod at each other with reverence thinking about the olden days when things came from places they’ve heard of but never seen such as JC Penney.
The appraiser goes on discuss how rare “a piece” it is. He speculates at what it would bring at auction in today’s market. Great grandson graciously thanks him for the information, but tells him he thinks they will just keep in in the family. Perhaps one day it can used to soak up an oil spill or as housing insulation.
My mom calls me a minimalist. That’s not as accurate as I’d like it to be, but I do try to limit the things I hang on to, making sure that those things that stick continue to add genuine value to my life. I do have a few clothing items that fall in this category; this robe definitely is one.
Thank you robe for your diligent service. You’ve brought me great happiness, be it on your best day or on the “whatever, I tried” days. My future generations and I are sincerely grateful.
Thanks for reading!
Bifocals and Barbells 