First of all, you need to know that I LOVE robes. Bath robes, lounge robes, silk robes, fuzzy warm robes (ok Hogwarts robes, graduation robes, and other awkward robes don't count here people). I own about fifteen. They range from velvety vintage miracles of the cloth to sumptuous long, decadent hotel robes that I seem to collect.
I have this habit of keeping my bathrobe on till the very last minute. Example: In college, roommates and I would be having people over, or getting ready for a night out. I would shower, put on my robe, do my hair, put on make-up, and wait...have a glass of wine...perhaps take a snap (snap [noun or verb]: short or small nap, 'to snap')...go into the living room and chat up my roommates....when it was finally time to call a cab, I would shed the robe and slink into my outfit for the night. I still do this. I don't see the point in inflicting premature wrinkles on my clothes, or potentially spilling, plus, it's just so much more relaxing/comfortable!
Enter this particular story:
One of my favorite robes to wear is an amazing vintage Christian Dior miracle of the cloth that was given to me by my grandmother. It is pure delight in all its sea foam green, lace-trimmed satiny glory. A light robe that keeps cool amidst blow-dryings and straightenings, this particular gem has seen some momentous events. One particular moment jumps to the forefront...
Freshman year of college. I had a roommate who loved to party....hard. I'm no wallflower by any means, but this gal took it to another level. One particular Wednesday (I guess it was a "Why Not Wednesday?" for her) I was doing what I do best; furiously fighting a deadline and writing a 15 page final paper the night before it was due...in my Dior robe...obvi.
So "Gigi" (the roommate) was out, and to be honest I wasn't expecting her to come back till the next morning if you know what I mean (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). I was merrily along my way, rambling on about Ralph Waldo Emerson (a personal fave) and making some impressive headway. It was 3:30 am and I was on a roll! Then...a sudden, frantic pounding on the door. I lived in "the party building" so it wasn't unusual for neighboring drunks to come clambering down the hallway pounding on doors, so I ignored the first attack.
Another, more insistent pounding ensued, and now my jedi-like mind focus had been broken. It sounded like half of the football team was barreling against my door. I crack the door and hear a cacophony of deep male voices trying to say something to me. I open the door, give them a "it's 3:30 am, can't you see the master is in her prime of writing?!?!" look and muster a "can I help you gentlemen?" The gaggle of men at my door includes the following to name a few:
1. the ever so crabby Turkish (yet mysteriously attractive) RA from the boy's floor beneath me
2. Two or three football players (so my first guess was partially true...yes I'm psychic)
3. A few fraternity boys I recognized from the floor below
I'm in Dior....robe...awkward. "What's the problem??" As an answer, they all simultaneously start talking again, and all I can manage to understand is something about "Gigi"...Oh Lord.
So I ask where she is, and they look at me like I'm an idiot. Then I see it....a hand grasping the door-frame, and attached to that hand is the arm, that leads to the slumped over body of "Gigi", looking disheveled to put things lightly. Holy.Cow. "WHAT HAPPENED TO HER?!?!" I yell, while being careful not to yell so violently that I don't expose myself and loosen the satin tie around my waist.
"We found her. On the boy's bathroom floor. We tried to put her clothes back on her, but it got weird." ......(So at what point wasn't it weird???? ) "Gigi" was now gurgling out Lord knows what, and then all Hell broke loose. Crabby Turkish hottie saw that our smoke detector was covered and starting interrogating me...
"Are you HIGH?!??!"
"WHAT? NO! I'm writing a paper!!!"
"You've been smoking! Why is your detector covered?! YOU'RE HIGH!!!"
"Umm...no, I'm not "high" (ok so I might've been high on Red Bull but that doesn't count).... roommate covers the smoke detector because she burns fabric for her "theater costuming" class...so please don't yell at me and wrongly accuse me of drug abuse" (you see, I had been using elevated language in my paper writing, so I was able to retaliate eloquently...while wearing Dior)
"You better not be HIGH!!! I call your RA now, you take care of this!"
"Um..ok...thanks? Please stop yelling (and managing to still look hot while doing so.)
So the boys lifted "Gigi" into her bed, where she proceeded to Exorcist style yak everywhere. I called the RA, told her that it was HER job to take care of projectile fluids, and that I needed to finish my paper. So I disrobed, hung Dior on her hook, all while shooting menacing looks at the RA and my roommate for disrupting the master at work, threw on sweatpants and escaped the once dorm room, now vomitorium. The next morning, I tip-toed into the vomitorium to find it surprisingly clean and fresh-smelling (my roommate knew better than to leave it messy) and heard this:
"Do you know what happened to my underwear? I woke up with no underwear? Do you remember what happened?"
No "Gigi"......but Dior does.....
Moral of the Story: Don't be a "Gigi" and if you mysteriously wake up on a boy's floor bathroom...you might need a life-makeover, just sayin'.....