My Husband Hates My New Lover

I’ve got a new lover in my life.

She’s a dress. But, not just any old dress. Long and flowing, she wraps herself around me, gently; like a temperate pool’s caress on the booty of a skinny dipper.

Whenever I wear her, I feel fresh and full of life. Her effects, at times, transcend me to places of an almost spiritual nature. I honestly don’t think anything could be more feminine and uplifting than she.

Heavenly. She is so damn heavenly. And I feel grateful to have discovered her on a lonely sales rack last month.

Her under layer, the finest of jersey. Her outer, a raw silk that bellows when I walk.

My girlfriends see her beauty and have caressed her, enviously. But my husband, on the other hand,  doesn’t get it. He just doesn’t appreciate her.

When I wear her (my silky escape), he refers to me as “ghostly woman,” like the ones pictured looming by the light of the moon, amidst rustic woodlands. Sometimes, though, he sees my dress in a different light and he’ll ask me if I’m heading to a Toga party, while chanting: “Toga! Toga!” But his words, meant to poke fun and potentially bully my luscious lover from my wardrobe, just roll off the silken layers of her goddess-like beauty.

Just. Like. That. They roll. She is that fabulous!

The first time I saw her, I knew I wanted to wear her white loveliness. I didn’t know when she’d be best worn, though. So, I decided to say “screw it” to limitations! Forget being outfit appropriate! I would simply wear her whenever I felt like it.

Turns out she’s a chameleon; perfect for any occasion!

We sure have gotten around, she and I. We’ve lounged together, poolside. She’s flowed gracefully, during a stroll on the beach. She’s gone grocery shopping with me. We’ve baked together. We’ve attended and hosted barbeques, and been out for dinner and drinks. She’s even been a snot wipe for one of my kids.

She’s here to stay.

Durable.

Billowy.

And easy to wash.

What’s not to love?

My dress is so marvelous that she can be fancied-up with heels and a belt, for a night out. She also makes it a breeze to flow from party time to bedtime. All I have to do is remove my accessories, fling off my bra and underwear, and “skinny dip” myself all the way to bed. That’s right. She’s also a nightgown!

If Aphrodite wore a nightie, it would be a dress just like mine.

But, my husband doesn’t get it. Perhaps he’s jealous of my dress, and all the time we’ve been spending together. Maybe he wishes he was her. He’d better learn to love her, though, because I’m planning to be in that dress until I end up as the ghostly lady in the woodlands, adorned in eternal bliss by the light of the moon.