With an upcoming move on the horizon, the very wet July 4th was taken as a sign that it was time to begin (purging!) packing. The last time we moved, three years ago, I had the Herculean task of consolidating (a whole load of crap!) beautiful things from many years of living in a large home into (less crap!) a proper amount that would fit into an apartment... across the country. This time, the move will not be nearly as far-flung, and the space will be relatively the same, just reconfigured.
So, it will be a "breeze." I thought.
Tackling the big, black hole, better known as "my closet," was a task better suited to Indiana Jones, but I was up for it. I had been very conscious of space limitations these past three years, and thus was "relatively" prudent when it came to purchasing new things. (Or so I thought.) I tried my best to follow the recommendation, one thing in, one thing out, but if there is really anyone on this earth who actually abides by that hogwash, I would love to meet her.
For some expert advice, I turned to an article in Elle Magazine, that suggested I look at the entire process as a "cleanse." Not exactly an appetizing endeavor, but one I could wrap my head around, since the only thing actually getting the colonic was my closet.
As I went through the physical things that basically told the story of my life, the questions I asked myself were not, as the article suggested, "Was I high when I bought this?!?" but "Haven't I done this before?" and "Why weren't these thrown out three years ago?"
I obviously could not detach myself enough the last time I packed, but I was determined to be ruthless this time.The too small (yes, there were more of those), too outdated, too stained or torn items were immediately relegated to the "toss" pile...but then there was the old high school sweatshirt (was it even mine to begin with?), the tee shirt from the final parents' weekend at my son's college (that I only wore once-during that weekend), the shirt my former coworkers gave me when I left New York, that said "I Love NY" and left a trail of sparkles behind me whenever I wore it. Since I was moving back, shouldn't the streets of NYC get all "sparkly" now? (NO!)
Any workout wear that was too short, too old or too worn was aerobically lobbed into the throwaway pile... but some of those pieces reminded me of the instructors I had loved (and lost) during the years. And what of the sweaters that came with me to Los Angeles (where I never wore them) from New York over 25 years ago, and then back again to the East Coast? Those heavy, itchy, classics were... classic! After they saved me during the most horrific winter, how could I give up on them now? Ruthless me made quick work of the sweater skyscraper on the floor and turned it into a one-story double-wide.
And then it was on to the nightgown/lingerie drawer. The crossword puzzle pj's that my hubby bought me, thinking they were SO adorable (and they were... uh, are!), but have yet to come out of the bag. My Barbie Doll nightgown (that would be, not one that makes me look like a Barbie Doll, but one that is flannel, and has Barbies scattered all-over-it) has been with me since before I was married (I swear... I haven't worn it since I said "I do!")
And I am by no means a shoe diva, but the amount of shoes that I've amassed would make Imelda Marcos pause. Since I am now trying to adhere to the "Slow-Fashion Movement," any pair of shoes that were bought cheaply and worn once (or never) got tossed. Better to leave the curating of a footwear museum to the wise people at the Smithsonian.
After a few hours of trying to behave like a grown up, melancholy began to settle in. I realized one does not have to actually wear the clothes to appreciate them. There is a lot of sentiment and memories metaphorically woven into those fibers. I have read de-cluttering articles that suggest taking photos of the well-loved and well-worn items, but it's just not the same as looking closely at something and immediately knowing when you wore it, whom you were with, and how it made you feel. Touching the fabric brings you back to when you last touched it. There might still be a hint of perfume or body lotion (OK, sometimes that's not so good) hanging on for dear life. You can't get that from looking at a photo.
Melancholy gave way to one glass of wine-hey, this was only a symbolic "cleanse" and once again my mental fibers were battling with my moral fibers. By the time I got done, the boxes were packed, the closet and drawers were empty and I had the satisfaction of knowing that there would be some lucky people tap-dancing in their new shoes, and happily itching in their newfound sweaters come next winter. (And emptier drawers and closets on the back end will enable me to do some more shopping!)
Did I mention that my husband took advantage of the rainy weather to do his "cleanse" as well?He had his own piles of giveaways, is by no means as attached to his belongings as I am. He's out running as I write this, so it's a great opportunity for me to check on what he's got in those bags...and I think I see an old Hawaiian shirt from many moons ago that he definitely should NOT be parting with... not yet anyway.
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