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How well I know of the floordrobe and bedrobe. Before I was married, I had no problem sleeping in my unmade bedrobe. I live in a mountain forest and my furnace had been broken for 1 year before my husband to be moved in, so the bedrobe provided some necessary heat and coziness when the temperatures dropped into the 20s and teens.

Actually, come to think of it, my husband has turned the spare bed in his office into a bedrobe and sometimes if I can’t sleep, I climb in and cozily write or read under piles of sweats, jeans, socks, books, etc. I like the feeling of the weight of all that stuff on top of me. It’s also fun, because you never what surprise you might find while tossing or turning - like a huge horizontal grab bag.

I was also an untidy kid, as was my sister, and we would occasionally come home to find all our belongings in a huge pile in the middle of the floor, in a fit of justifiable parental frustration, after weeks of begging us to clean our rooms.

Funnily enough, I was also born with a wicked case of OCD. In adulthood, it manifested in a maniacal need to have everything in its place, and my life organized on a level that rivaled the military.

Today, not so much. I blame the Zoloft.