So The Mr. bought me a big fluffy Vicky’s Secret robe for Christmas,
(Evidently the secret is that there actually is a section of clothing somewhere in the store that IS meant to cover girl parts. Who knew? )
I was confused. I am not really a robe kind of lady, to be honest. I have lounge wear that is climate-appropriate, so extra layers aren’t needed.
I didn’t really get it, but gift-selection pressure is a bitch for me too, so I shrugged it off and slapped the robe on the hook in the master bath.
This morning I discovered the reason for a robe.
6th floor living- in a place that didn’t face another high-rise – made some things acceptable that, (as it turns out,) aren’t super-awesome ideas at ground level.
Like, just as a totally real made up example, deciding to go get more coffee on a lazy holiday weekend morning as your bath fills. After you’ve shrugged out of the aforementioned climate-appropriate lounge wear. Strutting across the living room at the front of the house. Blinds open. Neighbor dude, his son, and a couple buddies wrenching on the kid’s truck facing the GIANT windows.
Hello, sleepy little suburban circle. Nakey new-lady here.
NOT the nickname I want.
I’ll just go get my robe.
Reluctantly Suburban 