Bathrobe Man, Where Are You?

clutches me, pawing at my
inner teenager.


I miss him. I really do. We had a lovely relationship a few weeks ago. It was full of mystery, wonder, humor and enough strangeness to keep me coming back.

Oh Bathrobe Man… where are you? For three days I drove past your house to find you standing in the front yard. I was captivated. And now, you are gone…

On the first day, I admired your bathrobe. I’m not sure I’ll ever see its likeness again. The color somehow walked that fine line between light brown and gray-peach that is really hard to pull off. Some might call it taupe. Others might call it morning-after poop.  I liked how the nap of the terry made the color dance in the morning sunlight.

And how you moved… was that tai chi you were doing? You were so graceful. That’s hard for a man of your size. But it occurred to me that perhaps you were once a football player, as your physique hinted at a past power, now, unfortunately, gone with age and maybe a little ill-use. But nonetheless, I thought your dance, your moves, whatever, were nice to watch and made my morning commute all the better.

The next day of our too-short relationship I planned my commute so that I would pass your house at about the same time. Would I be so lucky as to once again glimpse you? Would you reveal more of your self to me, there in your front lawn? Oh, how I hoped. And alas, you did not disappoint.

In my 20 second drive-by that day, I was able to admire your foot wear and legs. Not sure how I missed them on day one, but that day I couldn’t take my eyes off them. The calf-high white socks worked perfectly with the just-below-knee length of your bathrobe. The black slippers, a perfect accompaniment. I reaffirmed my belief in your historic footballer career as I noticed your calves approached thigh proportions… round and strong-looking.  Yet today, your mood seemed to indicate contemplation. Standing there, coffee cup in hand (surely you drink coffee, not tea), you gazed skyward. I’m sure we breathed deep in unison. It was nice.

The next day I cursed my work schedule, which required an early arrival. What did I miss? What if you had noticed me absent and thought my affection waning? I rearranged meetings for the following day to ensure I would be available for you.

And that next day, you were there again. But I was a little alarmed. I was still about 100 yards away when I saw you come out of your house, still bathrobe clad, but more purposeful than prior days. You stepped briskly down your porch stairs, across your yard and down a second set of stairs into your driveway. Now level with you, I was shocked at how crisp your left turn was (perhaps military, not football?) and wondered, wickedly, whether your bathrobe would flutter and reveal more of your mysterious self to me. But then I was past you and, gazing concernedly in my rear view mirror, I watched you march across the street and down a few houses… Now so far away as to not be totally sure, I think you mounted the porch of a neighbor, where you disappeared from view.

You bastard. You are seeing someone else in the morning. These are my mornings. We have something here. I miss one day, just one day, and you decide to move on. I was crushed, devastated and beyond curious as to who this wretched devil-woman was that had lured you away from me.

It’s been four weeks now, and you are nowhere to be seen. No morning coffee. No sunlit tai chi routines. Just me, lonely, slowly driving past your house wondering if you miss me too. What we had was special, don’t you think? Or have you moved on… now shacking up with the woman in the gray house down the lane. Is that why I don’t see you anymore? Have you moved your morning ritual inside, a performance only for her?

I miss you bathrobe man.

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  1. When I was in high school, on the drive we always passed this boy, also on his way to school. He was always wearing a different vest. We called him Vest Boy. Your hilarious post today made me think about Vest Boy for the first time in years. I wonder where he is right now? Does he still wear a vest? Does he have vest-wearing kids by now? I suppose I’ll never know…

  2. Haha aww. Well it’s his loss. I’m sure this new woman is not at all capable of writing such a beautiful blog post in his honour.

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