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Christmas morning I was awakened from my deep slumber by the blast of my combo iPod/lawn mower/alarm clock playing of all things, "Silent Night."

I sprang out of bed … well, sprang is the wrong word since it is obvious my spring has sprung.

I crawled out of bed because my head was filled with so much good cheer from the night's festivities. Eggnog has calcium, and that's good for the bones, you know.

I struggled to the living room to retrieve my gift, which I knew I would be getting because I had been very good, frankly against every attempt to change that condition. I really like to be bad, but there seems to be less opportunity recently.

How Old Nick even sneaks through our gated senior community or down my non-existent chimney is a mystery anyway.

I opened the box gingerly and, lo and behold, I encountered the most exquisite peignoir set this side of Jean Harlow. The primrose nightgown was trimmed with a scarlet boa.

The voices on the couch urged me to try it on. I remember when shouts from a crowd usually said, "Take it off. Take it off." Now I am always hearing "ICK! Put it on for God's sake."

I changed into the lovely outfit and immediately felt a draft.

"Aw, you shouldn't have," I exclaimed, while internally thinking, "^%*(@#," all the while exhibiting my Liberace smile.

So, this is what I did the minute they were out of sight.

I ran to the Goodwill bag where my criminally guilty family members had once again stuffed my wonderful, soft, faithful remnant of a bathrobe. They had tried this ploy for years thinking maybe if they bought me something nice, I'd get rid of this schmateaux (French for rag!).

The sleeves are frayed, the flowers have blown away and the sun-kissed yellow has become a nasty shade of puce. The quilting has matted in big clumps, looking like Joan Crawford or Peyton Manning's shoulder pads

Constant washings caused fading and shrinkage. I often get chapped hips.

Still, I love it.

Everyone has something they are attached to. Some men have old sweaters or girlfriends.

How many of you insist on wearing the same tacky shirt, chicken outfit or onesies? You know you do.

I've never been caught wearing my formerly quilted frock except by my immediate family and the dog who recently disappeared.

Let's face it, I could keep the more attractive peignoir set, but that would only create problems. Word would get out that I look spiffy and then rich; handsome men would, once again, hound me.

When I was younger and cuter, that created terrible ankle problems because I had to keep kicking throngs of gorgeous guys out of my way. Thankfully, it is no longer an issue. Even at my yearly checkup, the doctor insists that I not disrobe. Just yesterday one said, "For goodness sakes, Miss, please keep your clothes on. I am your dentist."

As long as there is thread of material or a button hanging in there, so shall I. That is what friends do. After all, my big heart can embrace being both a friend of this robe and all of Canada, the United States, Europe, etc., plus all the ships at sea.

So, Santa, you might as well stop this yearly stunt.

Stay out of Victoria's Secret, or I will be forced to actually reveal her secret, which happens to concern you and Mrs. Claus's sister.

To the rest of you: Step away from the robe!

- Jan Marshall

Jan Marshall has devoted her life's work to humor and healing through books, columns and motivational speaking. As founder of the International Humor & Healing Institute, she worked with board members Norman Cousins, Steve Allen and other physicians and entertainers, including John Cleese. Her newest satirical survival book, Dancin' Schmancin' with the Scars: Finding the Humor No Matter What! is dedicated to Wounded Warriors, Gabrielle Giffords and Grieving Parents. She donates a percentage of the profits to these organization as well as to the American Cancer Society and the American Brain Tumor Association.