Fall Cleaning

Five or so years ago, when life events conspired to make me very sad, I did a ruthless wardrobe culling and spent about $500 on new clothes.  This was partly for practical reasons – I had dropped twenty pounds because I am a non-eating depressive (rather than, for example, a chocolate-snarfing depressive.)  It was also psychological – part of a package of things I allowed myself in order that I exit the realm of Miserable Wench ASAP.  Old life, old size, gone forever.  New size, new me – by spending the outrageous sum of $500, and tossing my safety net clothes into the Goodwill box, I was committing myself to a better future.  It was bigger than clothing, but my acting education has taught me the importance of costume.

I was trying to build a happy self from the outside in.  Trying to be foxy.  Confident.  Young.  Attractive.  I got a lot of dates in those days, so I suppose I succeeded.  Running my hands over what is still left in my closet from that spree, I feel good looking at them.  They remind me of sadness, but also excitement from some big changes, a new beginning, and lots of really fun times.  I’ve always been a sentimental old cow, and had a weird emotional attachment to stuff (I trace it back to my military roots, or rather, lack thereof.)  These days our wee house helps me stay trim – I am getting good at releasing *things* before they become laden with memories and impossible to jettison. 

The clothes from my Young and Sexy and Single period of course don’t fit anymore, either my body or my image – this doesn’t make me feel bad.  I am no longer of the age when a sliver of belly showing between tops and bottoms is appropriate (and it ain’t a sliver these days, lemme tell ya!)  125 is not my natural weight, and the daily diet and exercise required to maintain it was unreal.*   Over time, I’ve made adjustments.  The tight shirts have scooted to the back of the closet.  A shockingly short skirt I bought in Amsterdam went to the bottom of the drawer – I’d pull it out to try it on once in a while, in front of the mirror in my bedroom only (it has been a long time since that thing was appropriate for public viewing! ) My high heeled knee high boots, one pair in black and one in brown, were the last to die – still in rotation until the pregnancy forced me into flats, and then permanently into a half size larger.

This weekend, on a Sunday afternoon in early fall, turning to chilly, I dragged my tub of winter clothes in from the shed to do my seasonal switch.  Next to my Rubbermaid labeled “Off Season Clothes,” I have that other box.  You know the box – you probably have it, too.  The box of no return, where things go after you can no longer use them, but before you have the heart to shed them completely.  I looked at that box for a long time this weekend, and then I dragged it in the house, too.  I pulled the stuff out piece by piece – I wore this shirt to the bar that night when we saw that awesome band the week before B & J broke up.  I wore these jeans to the bakery where I worked, they were always covered in flour.  OMG!  This is the long sleeved t shirt I wore on the day I met my husband!

It’s all gone.  Gone along with my twenties, my childless years, and my pre-preggo bod.  I’d been meaning to do this for a long time.  It didn’t take too long, and I didn’t feel too bad.  No tears were shed.  There were no tortured moments or anything, just a few minutes devoted to a navel gazing blog post in memoriam, and then life will go on, with one less box weighing it down.

You should’ve seen me packing up the baby’s too-small stuff, though.

*no breakfast or lunch.  Diet Coke at about 3pm.  Very small meal for dinner – for example, half of a half of a Subway sandwich and half of a single serving bag of chips, with another Diet Coke.  Then maybe a snack of an apple or something at 9pm.  And I ran 12 miles a day, 4-5 days a week.  Ha.  Haha.