It's No Longer Funny

Not that it was ever funny in the first place. I'm referring to the not so mysterious disappearance of my gowns and nightshirts. Every time I drape one over the chair in my bathroom it is replaced with some slinky number that does not provide the comfort I'm looking for.

I know I've addressed this subject before. But addressing it has not solved the problem. And I know I'm not alone. Every woman out there has her favorite threads. They are usually worn and faded, soft and loose, and a big turn-off to the man in our lives. I like to come home from work and shed the outer and under garments and slip into something that allows everything underneath to go where it wants to go, which is usually South. I do not want to cook dinner in a spandex body suit and risk burning parts of my exposed skin. I do not want to hear "put on something sexy" the minute I walk in the door. I understand that men are visual creatures, but we need a balance. A balance - to me - means making no repetitive comments about my "granny gowns", and understanding that comfort is of the utmost importance at this age.

Now, I wouldn't call my lounging wear granny gowns. Maybe I didn't purchase them at Frederick's of Hollywood, but they don't look as if they were made for a very mature lady. In my humble opinion, they are sweet and cutesy and perfect to slip into to cook or apply makeup. And they are comfortable.

This is my feeling about some of Robin's favorites:

- The Mesh Dress - The fisherman caught a whale.

- The Spandex Dress with side cut-outs - Woo-hoo! Look at those love handles!

- The Black Lace Body Suit - A mermaid who no longer feels comfortable in her own skin.

- The Metal Bikini - Biker Babe Relic, or let's not even go there.

- The Peek-a-boo Dress - Peek-a-boo flab.

- The Mint Green Mini Dress - Mold on mold.

OK, maybe it's not that bad. But close. I want clothes that are functional. I want clothes that enable me to function. I don't want to be confined in tight-fitting clothes or wear myself out sucking in the tummy muscles. I want to breathe. I believe we should all be comfortable within the walls of our own home.

I could resume my crunches and other boring exercises. Not only would it make me feel better in the clothes Robin likes, it would improve my mental outlook. I'm in a funk and I'll be the first to admit it. Hiding my comfy clothes does not help matters. I shouldn't have to demand my nightshirts when laundry day arrives. The disappearance of my gowns doesn't produce any favorable results. I merely pull another one out of the drawer.

Robin still doesn't get it. This old, tiring joke is still funny to him. I fail to see the humor, especially after nine years of the same thing. Once when I couldn't find my favorite lounger, I later discovered it on his 5-foot skeleton, propped at the computer with a bony hand on the mouse. No more Halloween toys for this boy. They backfire on me.

I think it's time to demonstrate. Women of America, unite! Put on those comfy clothes, hold your signs of protest high and proud, and let's storm the streets of this great Nation. I'll be there in my bleary-eyed nightshirt that reads, "I hate Mondays". Allison will be there in her thread-bare Tweetie nightshirt. Angela will be sporting either her gray thing or her alternate gray thing. Cheryl will be leading the pack with her pigs-with-wings pajamas that proclaim "when pigs fly". Just maybe we will get the message across this way.

And maybe not. Robin still suggests we go shopping for some sexy items. And I still tell him I don't wear the ones I have.