Dear Diary, I started collecting vintage nightgowns.

I’ve always loved the drama of a fancy nightgown.

You know the look: the "I just killed my husband, now I need a cigarette" robe. The sexy two-piece you only see in movies when someone is about to seduce or get murdered (or both). I've loved them for as long as I can remember.

So I decided to bring a little of that spicy, playful, mysterious-movie-woman energy into my 30s.

The first gown I adopted was a floor-length purple babydoll with spaghetti straps from the 70s. I saw it and immediately knew her name was Nightingale. She was moody and elegant and a little dangerous. The kind of gown you’d wear to read tarot at midnight or whisper secrets into a tape recorder.

Since then, it’s become a whole thing. A cute little hobby that is purely for me.

I've had a few missteps along the way (turns out I don’t like pastel colors, which unfortunately rules out about 80% of vintage nightgowns). I also surprised myself by realizing I prefer the soft, stretchy nylon styles over cotton—huge shock, considering I’m usually a natural fiber girlie.

My most recent addition? A hot pink, A-line cutie with a sweetheart neckline. Her name is Strawberry. She’s flirty. She makes me want to put on lip gloss before bed. I love her.

No one really sees these gowns except my husband. This little ritual is entirely for me. There’s something oddly magical about slipping into something soft and slightly ridiculous just to make yourself feel pretty at the end of the day.

If your 20s were for chaos, your 30s are for self-romance. For small indulgences. For deciding you’re the kind of woman who collects vintage nightgowns and gives them names.

And honestly? I think she’s fabulous.

P.S. Read here Vogue's article A History of the Rich Widow Robe.