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.
SecretSalon.blog 
Ronna Lebo (I’m testing to see if this works – I am not able to add a post, so I will type in my ‘bathrobe piece’)
I have two bathrobes that hang on the bathroom door, each on a hook. There are two hooks, and over each bathrobe hangs a towel. I love both bathrobes and have had them for years. One was a gift from my daughter. It is silky and light, marvelous. I’ve slipped into it a handful of times over the years, but it is precious so I don’t use it often. I think I am afraid to ruin it.
The other is more of a long sweater, and I’ve worn it more often than the other, but only for short periods of time because it makes me too hot after a bath or shower. It’s okay to put it on before bathing, but still, the wearing of the thing is minimal.
In Indiana, in my closet, hangs a third bathrobe, but it isn’t mine. It belonged to my youngest brother. He lived in my house when he was still alive.. He loved that robe. He wore it all of the time, just put it on over his pajamas every morning or evening. It’s fluffy and soft, maroon in color. It’s pretty worn out, but I haven’t gotten rid of it yet. He’s been dead eleven years, now. I kept an old worn out pair of his golf gloves, too, and a baseball cap.
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Write About a Bathrobe
“I really like your Jack London side.”
—Beth Borrus
I’ll write about the one that
hung open
so sexy
so tattered
and coffee stained
or the one my grandmother
gave me
purple velour w/ leopard spots
zipped down the front
the length of a summer dress
I loved it so
I wore it out to punk rock
shows
I took it everywhere w/ me
through high school
& college
Who knows where it went
did it end up in the
clothing-by-the-pound
thrift store
in the Mission?
At Sargent Irene’s on
the east side in Austin?
At Out of the Closet in
Atwater Village
dedicated to raising funds for people
living w/ HIV/AIDS?
A lot of fabulous and haunted
garments there
where lives ended up
on the bookshelves
and racks
I found my favorite white leather
jacket there
Only later to return it
for all the bad memories
I’d made in it
Inasmuch as I can remember
the nights of blackout drunk
in L.A.
the nights in white leather
getting dirtier by the
hour
Nothing I love better
than dirty white leather
That purple leopard velour
bathrobe
such an unexpected delight
it was probably purchased
at K-Mart or TG&Y
There are other bathrobes
luxurious thick and white
signs of purity and money
wealth & leisure time
I’ve worn one or two of
those, too
Special occasion
splurge
hot water that never runs out
a mini bar I’ll never touch
an eight dollar foil bag of
non-gluten free crackers
I’m gonna eat ’em anyway
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The prompt was—Write about a bathrobe:
•
I don’t have a bathrobe anymore
but I do have a green dress thing
I bought at Target
before they sold out.
•
Before, you know, Target sold out.
And, I’m not talking about the dress.
•
The green dress looks like a dress—
it’s long, it’s a single cylinder of fabric you
pull over your head before
adjusting its green cord that forms the collar-sleeve
situation—but it came from the swimwear section.
•
I only have this green dress,
this verdant, perfect shade of
deep foliage dress,
or rather swimsuit cover-up garment—seriously, marketing people,
It’s a dress. I only have
it because my genius friend Tara
turned me on to it.
•
It’s not a bathrobe, but
just today, once again, after a
shower to relieve my tropical
sweatiness
I slipped it over my head, my body
still damp, the easy drape of the lightweight
100% bubble cotton not quite ample enough to
billow, breezing around me.
•
Sadly there’s no hammock in
this house on the Island, so
in my not-bathrobe, I stood yet again
on the varanda gazing out at the
distant hillside’s multiple
shades of green, relishing the
ventinho—the little wind—against
my grateful skin.
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