deep in the closet

It all started with the unpacking. I'd bought a few things in Greece; a couple of sweaters, scarves, a few gifts; some costume jewelry I couldn't resist, and I needed to put it away. At the end of three weeks, all the small bits were in place but the sweaters, scarves and a purse remained on the chair where I'd stashed them, staring at me accusingly.

I'd been needing to clean out my bedroom closet for some time. For weeks I'd been finding blouses standing alone, sans hanger, held up only by the crushing proximity of their sister garments. My clothing is its own support group ~ The Sisterhood of the Non-traveling Fat Pants. So I put my head down and dug in.

Things my Closet Told Me:

I shop too much.

Yes, this a no-brainer. I love to shop. I am a material girl with a frighteningly acquisitive nature. Shopping is my hunter instinct gone all girlie; it's practically feral. I have been known to buy something I'm not yet convinced I even want just because it is the last of it's kind and I can see another sister-hunter eyeing it lustfully. And then I do want it. Badly. This is a most unappealing side to my character and just one of the many reasons I would make a lousy Buddhist. This must stop.

I am cheap.

Of all the clothing with tags still attached (an alarming number of which still did, I am ashamed to say) 98.53% of them were marked down not once, not twice, but a minimum of three times. And that's just the tagged price; there is no doubt that there was additional discounting involved. It's the only way I shop. Thus have I saved a veritable fortune on a virtually unwearable wardrobe.

I am delusional.

Apparently, I am a 22 year-old hottie trapped in the body of a middle-aged nottie. How else to explain no less than 8 pairs of super-low rise jeans, some of which have rhinestone embellishments on the rear pockets, the better to draw attention to what I clearly believe to be a tidy little butt? I've noticed myself avoiding mirrors with increasing frequency and determination. I suspect this is the first step toward madness, followed by excessive use of silicone facial fillers and the dogged insistence that I am a foreign policy expert based on the French labels in my clothing. And the sturdy belief that Target is French. And that Forever 21 is not just a shop, its a promise.

I am clinging to the past.

Size 4 slacks. I'll say no more. It makes me go all verklempt. And I'm not sure it was ever even true ~ I must have worn those pants for all of 10 minutes in 1982. And then I ate something.

I am eclectically sized.

Sizes 4 - 12 are represented by various garments and styles, overlapping throughout the overall time period. Some would call this the result of a lifetime of yo yo dieting; I prefer to think of it as eclecticism; a certain generous expansiveness, if you will.

I am a sentimental fool.

My wedding dress (cocktail length) and a few pieces from my trousseau that will never be worn again. A hippie-child peasant blouse from Byer of California that I bought for $10 in 1975 and wore as a favorite throughout the following 2 decades. A beautiful burgundy velvet gown and fur cape, never worn, that my mother gave me just because she felt I had to have them. My old clarinet. A white tutu and rhinestone tiara. And no, I'll never tell.

I made some pleasant discoveries as well, including a nice pair of black suede boots purchased in Texas and an elegant velvet evening jacket (when was I that girl?) But my absolute favorite is a gorgeous gray, vintage faux fur swing coat with a designer label and broad cape collar that is to die for ~ also a gift from Mom, and one which I had forgotten about completely. If the temperature ever dips below 65 degrees here in the land of heat and smoke, I am going to rock that coat.

In the end, several days and a couple of tissues later, I liberated no less than 59 hangers (!), 10 shoe boxes, lightened the contents of several drawers and filled 8 shopping bags full of clothing. God only knows what they're going to make of it all down at Our Lady of Perpetual Amusement. I hope they'll judge me kindly in spite of myself; a cheap, delusional, sentimental shopaholic with growing antisocial tendencies. But I'm letting go. At least someone's going to get some pretty, gently-worn clothes out of it. Some tiny, tiny little people.

I put the Greek fisherman sweaters away.