It’s a secret, a deep-held shame that I hide from myself as much as from other people.  It often takes refuge between the rant-laced lines of Armchair Blasphemy.  But I can no longer conceal it or wave it away—I must at last face it and admit to you the reader my deepest shame:  I harbor deep jealousy of religious clothing, most especially robes.

It has nothing to do with belief or unbelief; it’s just about comfort.  I am what is often known in American parlance as a “fat slob.”  I can’t buy shit off the rack, because even though I am nearly six feet tall, I have only a thirty-inch inseam, and I’m shaped like a stunted pear. Continue reading My Robes of Shame →