That would be passé.
That would make me like any other writer and, of course, I’m special.
It’s just a pink bathrobe day.
You know, one of those gray, wet mornings when you haul yourself out of bed, stumble into the closet and stare, un-caffeinated, at your options. And somehow you know there is only one. The pink, fluffy, warm, size 3X Walmart Deluxe bathrobe. You wrest it from the hanger and snuggle down into its folds, knowing your day is taking its inevitable course.
The great thing is that experience has taught you that this is a temporary malaise. You give yourself permission to slouch around the house, avoid the dishes, and lie on the bed reading novels that have no chance of contributing to your current writing effort. You surround yourself with dogs, let them up on the bed (they can wear pink robes if they have them, too). It’s no big deal for my Yorkies to be on the bed, but when Phoebe the Great Dane gets to hop up, it’s a high holiday. You put your laptop under the bed (in case you get the urge to blog or email) and watch cable movies, ones you wouldn’t be caught dead mentioning to anyone. My penchant runs towards really crappy romantic comedies or old, depressing dramas (e.g. Gena Rowlands and Peter Falk in “A Woman Under the Influence.”) Now that I think about it, movies about crazy people figure largely over the course of the 24-hour pink bathrobe day.
Something gross for lunch, preferably laden with Vitamin G. Then it’s time for a nap. If you’re lucky, it’ll still be raining and the dogs will snore lightly. This adds layers of meaning to an otherwise meaningless day. When you wake up, beware. This is the most dangerous part of the PB day. You will feel the urge to do something… productive. Fight it! Make yourself a cup of tea (ignoring the dishes, the dirty wash, the fur balls in the corner) and go right upstairs with another book in keeping with the genre of the day (Sue Kaufman’s Diary of a Mad Housewife is an unerring choice) and invade your husband’s lair. (He is long gone, bolted the minute he saw the pink bathrobe). Reposition dogs on the couch and resume reading.
Back in bed for an evening of stultifying television and then early to bed. Do NOT take off that robe. It doubles as leisurewear and pajamas, a uniquely versatile ensemble. Roll over and sleep for ten hours.
When you wake up, just the sight of that robe will make you slightly sick. You roll it into a pink ball, stuff it into the back of the closet, jump in the shower, yank on your jeans and a sweatshirt and hit the keys.
Writer’s block cured!