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Senior Correspondent

Christmas morning I was awakened from my deep slumber by the blast of my combo iPad/lawn mower/alarm clock playing of all things, “Silent Night”.

I sprang out of bed … well sprang is the wrong word since it is obvious my spring has sprung.

I crawled out of bed because my head was filled with so much good cheer from the night’s festivities. Eggnog has calcium; good for the bones, you know.

I struggled to the living room to retrieve my gift which I knew I would be getting because I had been very good, frankly against my better judgment. I really like to be bad but there seems to be less opportunity recently. How Old Nick sneaks through our gated community or down the fake chimney in my co-op is mysterious.

I opened the box gingerly and lo and behold I encountered the most exquisite peignoir set this side of Jean Harlow. The sheer down to here, primrose nightgown was trimmed with a scarlet boa.

The voices on the couch urged me to try it on. I remember when shouts from a crowd usually said, “Take it off. Take it off. “ Now I am always hearing “Ick! Put it on for God’s sake”.

I changed into the lovely outfit and immediately felt a draft.

This is what I did the minute they were out of sight.

I ran to the Goodwill bag where my criminally guilty family members had once again stuffed my wonderful, soft, faithful rag of a bathrobe. They had tried this ploy for years thinking maybe if they bought me something nice I'd get rid of this Schmateaux.

The sleeves are frayed, the flowers have blown away and the sun kissed yellow has become a nasty shade of puce. The quilting has matted in big clumps looking like Joan Crawford shoulder pads

Constant washings caused fading and shrinkage. I often get chapped hips. Yet, I love it.

Everyone has something they are attached to. Some men have old sweaters, slippers or girlfriends.

How many of you insist on wearing the same tacky shirt, chicken outfit or jeans? You know you do.

I've never been caught wearing it except by my family. Let’s face it, I could keep the more attractive peignoir set but that would only create problems. Word would get out that I look spiffy and then rich, handsome men would, once again, hound me.

When I was younger and cuter; it created terrible ankle problems because I had to keep kicking throngs of gorgeous guys out of my way. Thankfully it is no longer an issue. Even at my yearly checkup, the doctor insists that I not disrobe. Just yesterday one said “for goodness sakes, please keep your clothes on. I am your dentist”.

As long as there is thread of material or a button hanging in there, so shall I. That is what friends do. After all my big heart can embrace being both a friend of this robe and the whole village.

So Santa, you might as well stop this yearly stunt. Stay out of Victoria’s Secret or I will be forced to actually reveal her secret which happens to concern you and Mrs. Claus’s sister.

To the rest of you; Step away from the robe!

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