Sitting in Luxury
The Queen Anne is swallowed by a heavy Scottish fog. Thick and gray, it blurs the horizon and grounds the tenders that were supposed to take us ashore. Plans to celebrate Ann’s birthday over cobblestone streets and cafe terraces have been swept away, replaced by an endless stretch of “waiting for the weather to clear.”
I feel restless. Trapped, even. My friend Ann sits across from me, looking more dejected by the minute, her birthday morning clearly not going as planned. Her shoulders slump a little more with every sip of tea, and even though she tries to keep up a cheerful front, I can see the disappointment in her face.
Around us, the Commodore Club feels equally suspended in time. Passengers in light jackets and cargo pants sit in chairs scattered across the room, their boots and rain gear prepared for a hike that isn’t happening. Everyone looks equally ready and defeated. All dressed up and nowhere to go.
And then there’s me—pacing. Shifting in my seat. Wondering what to do with the growing agitation in my chest. What I most want is comfort, something to wrap me in a feeling of ease. What I really want, if I’m being honest, is to feel like I’m lounging in my best pair of pajamas.
The Luxury of Pyjamas
Years ago, when I did some deep work on designing my best life, I was asked to define what luxury means to me—not the flashy kind, but the quiet, personal kind that fills you with joy. Without hesitation, I said: pajamas.
Not just any pyjamas. Matching ones. Long and soft, flowing fabric that caresses your skin. The kind of indulgence that whispers, you’re allowed to stop and breathe. In that moment, I knew this was my version of comfort, a tiny rebellion against a world that expects me to always be “on.”
And here, sitting in the middle of the swanky Commodore Club with nothing to do, I realize what I want more than anything is that version of luxury.
But of course, there’s a problem: I don’t have the nerve. Looking around, everyone else seems resigned to their casual-but-decorous outfits, keeping up the unspoken rules of cruise ship propriety. Am I really going to be the person who strolls into the lounge in a robe?
And yet—why not?
A Mischievous Choice
I jump up, startling Ann. “Grab your things,” I tell her. “We’re not sitting here waiting for the fog to lift.”
“What are we doing?” she asks, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“You’ll see,” I grin.
I dash to my cabin and pull out the robe and pajama set I bought at the last port on a whim. The robe is full-length, deep green with pink flowers and Celtic details, flowing like something out of a movie. The matching top and bottoms feel just as indulgent.
I toss them on, letting the fabric drape around me, and suddenly, I feel more like myself.
When we return to the lounge, I settle into one of the armchairs, order a pot of tea, and open my book. Ann hesitates, unsure if she’s willing to embrace my rebellion, but I gently nudge her to relax—and finally, she lets out a small laugh and follows my lead.
I can feel the eyes of the other passengers. Some glance at me, clearly debating whether my outfit violates some unspoken rule of decorum. Others give me small, approving smiles, as if silently cheering me on for breaking free from the expectation to “behave.”
And me? I don’t care.
Luxury Is a Choice
That’s the thing about sitting in luxury. It requires two things:
1. Knowing what it looks like for you.
2. And being willing to make it happen.
Sometimes, luxury is as simple as giving yourself permission to do the thing that feels indulgent, even if it seems “inappropriate” to someone else.
For me, that moment—lounging in my robe, sipping tea, ignoring the disapproval of the occasional onlooker—wasn’t just about comfort. It was about claiming joy in a situation that had started out frustrating and dull. It was about reminding myself that sometimes, the beauty of life isn’t in waiting for the fog to lift, but in finding a way to enjoy it anyway.
So, what’s your version of luxury? And when was the last time you gave yourself permission to indulge in it?