Here’s some information that I feel is worthy of passing on: Every decade, or so, you need to apply a critical eye to your closet. You just do. Otherwise, you’ll end up like me, which, in this case, is not a good thing to aspire to. (I say this in the event that there are hordes of you right now, at this very moment, aspiring to such a thing. Hey, it could be happening. What do I know?)
Well, let’s just say, for starters, that while I don’t really know a lot about anything, I know a little about a lot of things. The one thing that I know next to nothing about, though, has to be closet cleaning. I am a complete and utter failure at closet cleaning. Frankly, judging from the recent inventory I’ve been taking of this storage area, I’m not a very good closet filler, either. While engaged in an effort to become better at the former, I’ve made some disturbing discoveries regarding the latter.
For a heterosexual woman, I own an inordinate number of down vests. And flannel shirts. And Doc Martens. I could go on, but I’ll stop there, as even I am beginning to wonder if I am, in fact, a heterosexual woman. I will not even tell you how many pairs of men’s Levi’s or how many white V-neck t-shirts are tucked away in my bureau — let’s just say that it’s a fairly large number and leave it at that! (A note on the men’s Levi’s — just so you don’t judge me too harshly — I have NO curves on the bottom of my body, my waist and my hips have the same EXACT measurements. Always have. It’s just the way I’m built. Men’s jeans fit me better!)
Power tools do NOT belong in the bottom of the closet. (That’s what shelves are for!) The bottom of the closet should be reserved for things that go on the bottom of one’s body. Like shoes. In my case, I would need a closet the size of Rhode Island to house all of my shoes — my flip-flop collection alone could inhabit the square footage of Providence. So, that’s not really going to work for me, is it? I’ll have to come up with something, though. The shoe thing is a little out of hand.
On a positive note, I did find a stash of foundation garments — some of which still have enough elastic in them to do an adequate job of keeping the girls up and the stomach in. Like any good secret, they were buried in the deepest recesses of the closet. I bought most of them when I was 30 lbs. heavier, so there’s every chance that they are no longer up to the job, but I may just hang on to them anyway. You know, as a reminder of who I used to be.
I suspect that I won’t be alone when I reveal that the undergarments were not the only oversized/ill-fitting articles of clothing that I stumbled upon while attempting to gain enough room on the rack to hang up my coat. It’s psychological, I suppose, the act of holding on to clothes that are too big for us anymore. Part of it, I think, is the fear that we will need them again. (I hope I don’t, but you never know, do you?)
Ultimately, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with keeping ONE pair of the largest size pants I’ve ever worn — particularly if their only purpose is to serve as a reminder to “STEP AWAY FROM THE DOUGHNUTS!”. What I probably don’t need, however, are 18 pairs of pants that run the gamut from the size I currently wear through all of sizes that I’ve EVER worn. Really, what I should do is frame the giant pants and hang them near the refrigerator. Talk about your cautionary tales!
Unlike the pants that are taking up prime real estate space in my overcrowded closet, pants that I am resolved to dump in the charity bin, there is one outfit that I cannot seem to dispense with. I don’t wear it anymore. It’s likely I’ll never wear it again — in whole or in part. The skirt is too big for me now and the jacket is outdated — truthfully, it was probably outdated when I wore it last. Even if it did fit, even if it was fashionable, I probably wouldn’t wear it. Nor can I bring myself to get rid of it.
The last time I had occasion to wear it was at my mother-in-law’s funeral. Every time I see it — it still hangs together — I am reminded of her. For some strange reason, the outfit doesn’t evoke bad memories — memories of her accident, her illness, or even of her death. Instead, it reminds me of HER — the good HER, the alive HER, the person that she was before fate dealt her a bitter blow.
I like stumbling across it now and then. I think I’m going to keep it. Once I get rid of all those pants, surely there will be room for one outfit that serves a better purpose than just covering up my body. Certainly I can reserve a space for something that, odd as it may sound, conjures happy memories. A little rod space in my closet seems a small enough price to pay for that. I’ll just throw my coat on the chair — it’s usually what I do, anyway.
photo credit: closet
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