Closet Secrets

I am goin’ in.  Shovel in hand, headlight secured, elbow-high gloves and a dozen garbage bags, I am about to enter the deepest, darkest hole in the house… my clothes closet.  It is a scary place, laden with history and past exploits, fashion faux paux’s and “Glamour” don’ts.  Clothes that come in three sizes (skinny, regular and not so skinny) with designs and patterns that seemed like a good idea when purchased are awaiting trial to see if they will make the cut. It is a duty that I have obviously put off for too long but now is the time to take the bull by the horns and in place of my normal new years resolutions I now vow to dispose of the old (and then bring in the new).

Cueing my snookums that if I am not out of the closet in three hours, to send in help.  He nods in agreement, insinuating the National Guard may be the perfect fall back position.  He silently is thrilled that since we do share the same closet that some of his space may be yielded and given back to him so anything that he may do to lend support he does and then he quickly evacuates the premise, knowing too well that if he is within shouting distance he may be pulled into action himself.

Once inside the confines, my wardrobe comes alive with memories: a hand-beaded sweater my dad had given my mom from a trip to the Far East; a forest green Versace suit that I wore when I signed a ten million dollar deal (15 years ago), 17 pairs of black pumps (different heels and heights, textures and styles); a Hawaiian shirt that if it could talk would tell quite a tale; party clothes, work clothes, mom clothes.  This was going to be more of a task than I thought.  How does one part with items that so obviously are a part of who you were and help define who you currently think you want to be?  The historical worth alone is inestimable but the finds of a missing pendent on a work suit crammed in the back corner or the few dollars stuffed into a pair of pants pocket that you remember vaguely as a bet you won is priceless.

If I have any hope of getting in the new items I will have to downsize and purge somewhere.  My first thought is to go through my lovebird’s stuff and dispose of some of his articles of clothing.  That would give me my much-needed space and he probably wouldn’t notice.  Actually, he would quickly perceive this inequality as what started out as a 50/50 deal on the space has crept to 60(me)/40(him) and with the minor adjustment to 75/25 it might push him to his limit and as a backlash he may feel it is his duty and god-given right to rid my stuff out of his space.  This would be bad and I fear, have dismal consequences.

Diving in, I notice I really don’t need all those sweatshirts, sweaters with cowl necks, suits of any kind, pants that don’t have a little extra stretch, anything the color of orange, 10 pairs of gym shoes, 15 black turtlenecks (I think I only need 10), or items that make me look fat, old or tired.  By flushing out these old, (currently) tasteless things, I have found stuff I had forgotten I had – classic pieces that are timeless and accentuate my positives… keepers, for sure.

I must admit I was sad to see so many memories pass on, but my spirit is light and hopeful that in my new found closet space and perhaps with my new pale pink cashmere sweater, or bright red snow clogs, new history can be made.
 

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life. Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-