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On my dream Sunday, I rise naturally at 9 a.m. on the dot in a pair of silk pajamas and lift the still almost-perfectly-made-even-after-a-full-night’s-rest sheets off of me. I take my Sleepy Jones x David Coggins Cotton-Corduroy House Coat ($350) off its wooden hanger and, in one fluid motion, slide it over my shoulders.
I flawlessly execute an exquisite gibraltar using a perfectly polished, glimmering-in-the-morning-sunlight espresso machine and smooth some homemade jam onto a slab of toast. I mull over the New York Times crossword puzzle and call out to my girlfriend when I get held up on a line. She responds with something that makes me respond “Ah, yes, that’s the answer!”
In this scenario, I don’t even consider the sheer absurd luxury of owning a $350 coat that is made to be worn only in the house. A man comes to deliver flowers — because it’s Sunday and I have one of those fancy weekly subscription boxes, of course — and I look perfectly put together to answer the door and accept the package. The coat protects me from a bit of wind, which carries in the tune of singing birds.
Now, the reality: I wake up on a Sunday, most likely hungover, in a ratty T-shirt that I got for free after someone shot it out of a cannon at a sporting event. I take my dog down the four flights of stairs from my apartment, and once he’s ready, return back up the stairs. Then, I hope that there is something in the refrigerator that I can eat. I would say that maybe this thing is cold leftover pizza, but I have never not finished pizza.
I want to be a person who doesn’t finish pizza. I want the perfect life and the house coat that comes with it.