I think I have a problem.
I nearly tripped over my slipper pile the other day, and discovered there are at least 8 pairs of slippers.
Four pairs of mules, at least one of which is threadbare.
One pair of moccasins – oh how I love them!
Three pairs of ballet-type slip-on slippers, one of which I just bought the other day.
A fluffy, furry blue and grey set – a colour of which my collection is remiss – to match my blue robe, jammies and t-shirts.
They come up to my ankles, and so are like a slip-on slipper bootie.
They are beautiful.
I love them, and am glad they are part of my collection.
Part of my slipper “which pair shall I wear today” pile.
It is so nice to have choices.
Just like tea.
I happened to notice the pantry contains no less than 15 different types of teas.
I have Hibiscus. Linden Flower. Jasmine Green. Rooibos. Cranberry. Chai. Cinnamon Cardamom. Lemon Ginger. Peppermint. Camomile. Yuzu Matcha. Feeling Soothed, to name but a few.
You get the idea.
I just love having the choice of feeling which tea would be good for me today.
The early evening cuppa which just seems to end the day perfectly.
After dinner, watching tv, that kinda soothing cuppa.
Must be my English roots.
Gotta love having choices.
Just like my housecoats or robes.
The collection of soft, fuzzy coverups is expanding in my closet.
So much so, I will have to re-evaluate some of the sweaters that are also hanging in there, precariously being squeezed to the side, at the risk of being squashed, forgotten or overlooked.
Yes, I love a good robe. And if I find one on sale, all the better.
I found one a few months ago without trying it on because it was in a package, only to get it home and discover the sleeves were entirely too long!
I spent another $25 to have them taken up to 3/4 length.
So, not really a bargain after all – but it is my new favourite robe – a soft pink colour with a pattern of white leaves over it, made of that microfibre that washes up great and never pills or threads, so cozy and nearly floor length. I love it.
It rests among two or three other robes that I inherited from my mother after she passed. All cozy, all worth keeping for one day.
And I have most recently added soft, cuddly, cozy throw blankets to my list of collections.
The last one I spotted at a drug store, on sale, white and turquoise, would look perfect on the bed.
I now have counted at least 10 throws in the house.
One can never have too many.
You know, in case one gets dirty, is in the wash, or one wants a change of “throw scenery”.
Sometimes, I like the gold one on the back of the couch.
Then, to change things up, I put a rich deep burgundy throw blanket on the back.
It changes the whole vibe of the room.
In the summer, I choose a green throw.
There’s a throw on the bed to protect the duvet from cat hair or a furball.
There’s one on the floor of the office for Princess to nap in her sunbeam.
And then there’s the plaid chenille that always stays on the back of the rocker recliner chair.
I ruined that one when I washed it, and the little tassles became so entangled I couldn’t save them.
So, on the back of the chair it stays. Tangled tassles out of sight behind.
It’s nice to have choices.
They can make or break a day, I say.
What slippers to choose, robe to wear, throw to decorate, tea to calm.
Am I addicted to comfort?
To things that offer coziness?
It seems that maybe I am.
It offers my cerebral cortex, my hypothalamus, my dopamine, my grey matter or whatever you want to call it, a nice “fix”.
I had prided myself on not inheriting the addictive gene in our family pool.
But perhaps I was mistaken.
It seems I do like to collect things, for the mere fact of having a choice.
I dare say it may be a mild type of addiction, certainly not too damaging or detrimental to one’s health.
It may even be helpful to the economy, in that I will always be up for something new and soft and cuddly.
And I am always scanning the tea section in the grocery store for a new and exciting flavour.
It gives me great pleasure.
So, while I would say there could be worse addictions, I will say that loving creature comforts that soothe one’s soul, that create a loving cozy space, that decorate and offer a delightful esthetic, can’t be all bad.
But it is an addiction, nonetheless.
But I won’t call it a problem until I don’t have enough space for all of those things.
For then I would be a hoarder.
Then I will call for help.
I’ll be the one under the pile of cozy throw blankets, wearing the new fuzzy blue slippers, and the cuppa spilled tea all over my pink robe.


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