“Of course,” I reason, “I don’t have too many clothes. I don’t have enough closet space! This apartment must have been designed by a man!”
That reasoning goes kaput when I reach into the wall of fabric to inventory my goods.
“Do I STILL have that skirt? I think the last time I wore it was New Year’s Eve, 2000. I remember, because I was singing in an Italian restaurant that night and we were all afraid the lights and everything else would go out at midnight!”
I can’t get rid of that skirt. There is history attached to it.
With great effort, I look through all the other items in both closets. I manage to mark 5 garments for relocation to the thrift store, because they’re ugly and they don’t fit me anymore. Those are the 2 main criteria for tossing out: (1) ugliness; and (2) sizes I can’t fit into even if I wear tight spandex underwear. To qualify, a garment must fulfill both requirements.
I am sweating, hyperventilating and feeling dizzy by the time I am halfway through the task. This is too much for any woman. That tie-dye infinity scarf kept my throat warm for two winters. I owe it a comfortable old age, at home. Those granny jeans with the elastic waist and wide legs have stains that give them real character as a work of art. They belong in a museum, not a thrift shop. I can say something like that for every item still left in the closet after I remove the 5 unfortunate ones.
I dump the 5 marked items on my bed, close my eyes and count my breathing for a few minutes until I calm down, and head for my computer. I need a break.
The first site I open is my favorite shopping site. Within 10 minutes I have ordered a tee shirt, a dress, 2 pairs of cargo pants and a handbag. The other clothes will just have to make room for them when they arrive.