nightgowns. Think 1940s movies. Think Skinner satin. Fitted gowns that shimmy when you walk. Feel better than chocolate against your skin. Come with dressing gowns that fall to the floor in a pool of light.
Ok, maybe that was a little too 1940s movie, but you know what I mean.
Gowns like that are hard to find these days, especially if you’re tall. You can order them custom made from Europe, and when the exchange rate was in our favor, they were only insanely expensive, now, the cost is prohibitive.
When I win the lottery, cost will no longer be a consideration. My closet will consist of several good pairs of jeans. My new favorites are from Victoria’s Secret. Who knew that the underwear institution of the universe would actually make great jeans, in a 36-inch inseam no less? Granted, if I want to wear any kind of heel, I need a better selection of longer inseams, but really, they are reasonably priced and they fit exactly like you would expect them to. They look great on everybody.
Truth be told, Victoria’s Secret jeans are slightly more than a minor miracle. Could explain the whole angel wings thing.
Anyway, post lottery winning, my closet will be filled with several pairs of great jeans, several basic, but very well cut white blouses, some workout clothes, and beautiful nightgowns. Peignoirs. Negligees. Night dresses. Dressing gowns. Bed jackets. Lace and satin and silk and lovely sachets; not in a stereotypical flowery smell, but something crisp and citrusy, which may not be as traditionally romantic, but is sexy as hell, at least for me.
As it is, every evening when my day is done, I take a bath or shower with wonderfully scented soaps and gels. I shave and buff and primp. I put on a spectacular nightgown and lounge before retiring for the evening scootching into bed between crisp sheets wearing only a smile and perfume. It’s more than a ritual for me. It is a state of being.
One of the biggest advantages of my new roommate is that he will be gone most of the time, so I can continue my tradition. Suzi was always gone in the evening, now AJ will just be gone. It couldn’t have worked out better.
Back to the compare and contrast thing.
I warned you how my brain works.
My sister is shorter than I am, although she wouldn’t be considered really short. She has curves. Perfect curves. She was a girly girl from the git. Her hair is always perfect. Her makeup is artfully applied. Her clothes are strategically chosen and tailored to enhance her already impeccable form. Her nails are appropriately manicured, her pedicure is fresh and she always has a smile, showing perfectly white teeth.
If it weren’t for the fact that she’s actually a very nice person, I would love to hate her. I’d still like to smack her. But, truthfully, I love her dearly.
Here’s where it gets weird. She loves sports. She hates all things domestic. Her apartment, while never dirty, is certainly never neat, and, the woman, who could fill out any Frederick’s of Hollywood ensemble and make the models cry, wears ugly baggy t-shirts and sweatpants around the house, and even to bed.
She comes in for the night, strips, things land where they may, she pulls on whatever is handy and comfortable, and calls it a day.
We are so totally different, not only from what you would expect, but from each other, it can be off-putting. The joke between us is that Mom must have had a little sumpin’ sumpin’ happening on the side, with two very different men, in order to create the likes of Teagan and me, but my mom adores my dad, so it isn’t likely.
Neither of us has worked up the courage to ask the question. Not even in the form of a joke. Unless we can come up with a valid reason for DNA testing, my guess is we will all go to our graves with a wee bit of doubt.
We’ve decided to accept that a wee bit of doubt is good for the soul.
Thinking about all that
Ok, maybe that was a little too 1940s movie, but you know what I mean.
Gowns like that are hard to find these days, especially if you’re tall. You can order them custom made from Europe, and when the exchange rate was in our favor, they were only insanely expensive, now, the cost is prohibitive.
When I win the lottery, cost will no longer be a consideration. My closet will consist of several good pairs of jeans. My new favorites are from Victoria’s Secret. Who knew that the underwear institution of the universe would actually make great jeans, in a 36-inch inseam no less? Granted, if I want to wear any kind of heel, I need a better selection of longer inseams, but really, they are reasonably priced and they fit exactly like you would expect them to. They look great on everybody.
Truth be told, Victoria’s Secret jeans are slightly more than a minor miracle. Could explain the whole angel wings thing.
Anyway, post lottery winning, my closet will be filled with several pairs of great jeans, several basic, but very well cut white blouses, some workout clothes, and beautiful nightgowns. Peignoirs. Negligees. Night dresses. Dressing gowns. Bed jackets. Lace and satin and silk and lovely sachets; not in a stereotypical flowery smell, but something crisp and citrusy, which may not be as traditionally romantic, but is sexy as hell, at least for me.
As it is, every evening when my day is done, I take a bath or shower with wonderfully scented soaps and gels. I shave and buff and primp. I put on a spectacular nightgown and lounge before retiring for the evening scootching into bed between crisp sheets wearing only a smile and perfume. It’s more than a ritual for me. It is a state of being.
One of the biggest advantages of my new roommate is that he will be gone most of the time, so I can continue my tradition. Suzi was always gone in the evening, now AJ will just be gone. It couldn’t have worked out better.
Back to the compare and contrast thing.
I warned you how my brain works.
My sister is shorter than I am, although she wouldn’t be considered really short. She has curves. Perfect curves. She was a girly girl from the git. Her hair is always perfect. Her makeup is artfully applied. Her clothes are strategically chosen and tailored to enhance her already impeccable form. Her nails are appropriately manicured, her pedicure is fresh and she always has a smile, showing perfectly white teeth.
If it weren’t for the fact that she’s actually a very nice person, I would love to hate her. I’d still like to smack her. But, truthfully, I love her dearly.
Here’s where it gets weird. She loves sports. She hates all things domestic. Her apartment, while never dirty, is certainly never neat, and, the woman, who could fill out any Frederick’s of Hollywood ensemble and make the models cry, wears ugly baggy t-shirts and sweatpants around the house, and even to bed.
She comes in for the night, strips, things land where they may, she pulls on whatever is handy and comfortable, and calls it a day.
We are so totally different, not only from what you would expect, but from each other, it can be off-putting. The joke between us is that Mom must have had a little sumpin’ sumpin’ happening on the side, with two very different men, in order to create the likes of Teagan and me, but my mom adores my dad, so it isn’t likely.
Neither of us has worked up the courage to ask the question. Not even in the form of a joke. Unless we can come up with a valid reason for DNA testing, my guess is we will all go to our graves with a wee bit of doubt.
We’ve decided to accept that a wee bit of doubt is good for the soul.
Thinking about all that
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