Back in the spring, I made a valiant attempt to rid my closet of the unfit to be seen in and the simply unfit in the ongoing war of me, my shelves and pie - a battle between dignity, discipline and the capacity of my closet. Despite what seemed like a battle well-fought, my closet still seemed to be full to bursting with items that, in some case, I filled to bursting. When I put on the fourth pair of pants one morning that were unfashionably (read: unbearably) tight, I declared war.
Exiled from the closet.
On Saturday, I paraded in front of the illustrious panel of one judge (Mom), and we opened fire on my closet. The first time she said that something looked "okay," I reached for clarification. "Does it look okay or does it look fabulous? I don't do this that often, Mom, so let's be real." Given permission to declare the dreckitude of any subsequent ensembles, clothes started falling into one of the following categories. There were the proud and the few who returned to the closet with a hero's welcome. And then caught in the line of fire was the slim pile of fatter clothes I've managed to undergrow and the fat pile of skinny clothes that I continue to outweigh. Behind enemy lines was a robust mound of clothes that were to be given away, bound for a new home; and lastly, those clothes so worn out or so...awful...that there was nothing to be done but trash. Mom perched on the desk chair and snipered bunchy seams, tight bottoms, and baggy tops.
Give it away, give it away, give it away now
As Colonel Mustard said, "This is war, Peacock. Casualties are inevitable. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Any cook will tell you that."
In the end, there were causalities. The fat and skinny will be allowed to stay, living for a time in the basement until we determine if I am going to stay at this size or continue to yo-up and yo-down. But the giant giveaway pile? It's collateral damage. I've already donated some long slender pants to my tall slender sister.
Lest you think that this war waged left me unchanged, I am a seasoned closet soldier now. As much as I love shopping (and I do), I'm going to try to impose a few new rules on myself:
1) I will not buy clothing that does not quite fit or flatter because it is on clearance.
2) I will accept that I am no longer in my 20s and able to sneak by with inexpensive pants for my rather significant rear end and will invest instead in well-tailored bottoms for my well-tailored bottom.
3) I will limit myself to buying clothes with style and not add to my collection of simple, suitable, solid tops that make me feel simple, suitable and, well, a bit boring.
4) I will not purchase any more denim until 2014.
5) I will go to work tomorrow to earn the money to pay for the clothes I need now that I've dispensed with all that I had.
As I continue my slow and steady course toward moving into the house that I bought, I've noticed the accumulation of two things in the years since my last big move: clothes and pounds. Upon my arrival home, my wardrobe unfurled into three closets. And my waistline, likewise, has expanded [insert secret number of sizes I am unwilling to disclose on the internets]. It would seem that being reunited with homecooked meals and my boon shopping companion led to weight gain in a number of ways.
Instead of packing up the now ridiculous-sized wardrobe and moving it part-and-parcel over to the new abode, I'm forcing myself to sort through it piece by piece in a harrowing fashion show of the outgrown and simply "out." Those items that fall into the former category and intersect with the "I hope I'll wear it again someday" category get tossed into the box that I started awhile back when I noticed this rotund new trend. I call it "My Big Fat Box of Skinny." Inside are the single-digit-sized cherry red wool pants passed on to me by my sister-in-law. And the gray trousers I purchased on the cusp of fitting, only to tip right over the edge shortly thereafter into the "ain't gonna squeeze in no way no how" and requiring me to fold them neatly and place them in the box never having worn them in public. And the list goes on.
There were also in this hit-parade of fashion memorabilia the gross misfits, those garments I attempted to wear that rendered me flushed, panting and somehow twisted up in armholes and zippers with fabric cutting into all my soft places. The skirts that felt like sausage casings. The dresses I was able to get into but appeared to be related to the Michelin man with all my doughy rolls clearly visible.
And so it went - an extravaganza of ill-fitting. A feast of faux-pas. At the end of it, when the last skirt had been paraded out for review, I tossed the too-small items into the Big Fat Box of Skinny. And I noted, with a grimace, that the only thing that had lost weight was my closet.
I stepped on the scales this morning, and to my horror, saw numbers I had never seen before between my toes. And while ever tightening waistbands and unzippable zippers have subtly suggested my love handles were becoming too much to handle, I was unprepared to see in very real numeric proof the score of pounds at the root of the problem. This "heav-alation" presented a problem that must be tackled (before it makes it to the buffet line), and so I've drafted a few action steps:
* Find exercise options that don't sound repulsive * Always (always, always) take the stairs - this includes at the 9th-floor Atlanta office * Tell yourself that chocolate contains carcinogens * Consider buying one of those elastic expanders that pregnant women wear on their "normal pants" * Start a love affair with green leafy vegetables * Sweat more from being active than, well, from just living in the South * Get quotes for liposuction (Discard this idea because I can't be magically skinny AND have money for a house.) * Walk to work - this includes the 9th floor Atlanta office * Bring mumus back in style * Buy stock in Spanx * Go ahead and replace Facebook profile picture with the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man
I started writing when I was six. About 20 years later, I started taking photographs. I see the world in snapshots. And for what those can't capture, there's always words, words, words. I live in Atlanta, Ga., with a bearded husband,two darling cats named Clementine and Lulabelle and a mountain of shoes. I love the South, Diet Coke, dandelions and a gaggle of nieces and nephews.
