BETH BORRUS, November 23, 2025
I. There are two of them in the laundry basket on top of the dryer, his and hers bathrobes, Christmas colors by coincidence, mine a deep maroon, his evergreen. I bought them for us after a trip to the Inn at St. John in Portland, a place we’ve stayed a number of times, an old hotel with bathrooms that are not always part of the room. Either way, you get a set of bathrobes in the closet, fluffy white comfy robes that I wanted to replicate at home. They are too bulky to wear when you are doing anything except drinking coffee and reading, or watching TV. If you use the sink, your arms get soaked. Just relax and be warm is the message of these bathrobes.
II. Before we moved in together, he warned me that he lived in a bathrobe. Much more Lebowski than Hugh Hefner. This is a guy that goes to bed an hour or two after sunrise every day, requires blackout curtains, sleeps until night-time. Why get dressed? He’s not going anywhere–like work–until well after 10 p.m. Still it’s disconcerting, the permanent state of repose. I suppose it goes with the territory. Slacker chic.
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