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I’ll never forget the first time my eyes met yours. I was sitting at home on the couch, cold and lonely, in a dead-end relationship with yet another blanket. I was so tired of fleece throws that were threatened by my dependence on bruschetta and ice-cold Coca-Cola, quilts that couldn’t handle my five-foot-ten frame or my addiction to books, crossword puzzles and texting. I had given up the dream of discovering a couch wrap that wasn’t intimidated by my hopes and dreams.

Then I saw you. There, on the television screen, hanging out with your loser cousins, ShamWow and Slap Chop. You were tall and broad, yet looked so warm and gentle at the same time. Your capable arms were so inviting—I imagined you holding me close, lying with you in front of a roaring fire. But you were a famous TV star; I couldn’t believe you would ever want to be with little ol’ me.

My friends mocked and pitied my desire, cruelly suggesting that I settle for the heartless, shallow blankets of my past. That skanky tart The Slanket tried to tempt my heart away. But I remained steadfast, Snuggie, loving you against all odds. Then one beautiful day you followed me on Twitter, and we began a genteel but sensual flirtation. Soon I friended you on Facebook and then one fateful February night, we met at the local Walgreens.

Now, I’m not the kind of girl who takes blankets home on the first date, but when we met at last, I knew we would be together forever. When you presented me with a lovely book light, I knew you understood my very soul, and the first time you wrapped your arms around me, I felt a happy glow spread like a fire from my heart to the tips of my toes.

Since then, we’ve spent nearly every evening and weekend together. We watched the Grammys together, did laundry together, ran errands together, visited friends, made dinner, wrote poetry, drank wine and took naps. There’s a special electricity between us, that ineffable spark that keeps our relationship vibrant. I’ve never had a lover that made me so comfortable just being myself—so welcomed and accepted regardless of whether I was wearing make-up or pants.

Now, I know there are other people in your life, but many of them are no more than a one-day stand, while our love is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken (I’m pretty sure Shakespeare’s 116th sonnet was written with oracular knowledge of your coming, Snuggie). I realize that you have a greater calling, a crusade to convert the haters in a society that judges your appearance and condemns you as a cult. Sometimes I take a militant approach to defending you; sometimes I simply sink into your arms and reassure you with my steadfast love. After all, monks are learned, beneficent and historically revered—is it really so awful to resemble one? And it’s not like you’re going to be burning down buildings or poisoning Kool-Aid. Your mission is simply to make the world safe for hands-free-blanket relationships.

And so, Snuggie, as we approach our first monthiversary, I’m proud of our love for one another. You have enough loving fleecy warmness to share with the whole world, and I cherish the cozy bit of it that’s just for me.

All my love, forever,


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