Cleanin' Out My Closet...Sorta

A few weeks ago, one of my friends gifted me with loads of clothes that she didn't want to move to her new place. The collection comprised her "maybe I'll fit into this again someday" wardrobe. As she says, reality checked in: if she does return to this particular size, she's going to want to go on a spree and reward her reduced dimensions. Since I'm the sixth of seven children, I'm no stranger to hand-me-downs, and I eagerly accepted the goodies.

But oh, the jumbled clutter that my bedroom became. The overstuffed shopping bags tipped over and spilled their contents all over the floor. Honestly, I nearly wiped out a couple of times trying to hurdle past the piles to pick out a pair of shoes.

On Monday, I couldn't take it anymore, and decided to clean out my closet. Not Eminem-style, mind you. I literally cleaned out my closet. Flinging the windows open so the lush scent of Spring would inspire me, the closet carnage began. My rules were simple:

1. If I didn't were an item for a full season, it goes in the Good Will box;
2. If the item looks better on the hanger than it does on me, it goes in the Good Will box;
3. If the item looks like it should belong ot my sister and not me, it goes in a shopping bag that will then go to her.

What could be easier, right? For the most part, it was. I mean, I can't imagine why I've held onto that mock turtleneck for so long. Or that cami; I mean, I cannot walk around without a certain degree of support, and camis aren't so good at keeping Victoria's secret. One of my favorite wha-huh? articles was a paisley print button down. Paisley? Paisley hasn't been in style since about 1989. It's not comin' back (dear God, at least I hope it isn't). That stuff all got pitched without any hesitation.

Then it got hard.

There's that henley that I bought for my husband (then boyfriend) for our first Christmas together in 1997 (and then stole back from him). And the Aran sweater that my parents picked up for me when they went on their anniversary trip to the Emerald Isle. And the tattered concert t-shirts that aren't really fit for wearing anymore: Depeche Mode, U2, Nitzer Ebb, Rush (one of these things is not like the other one....).

These items aren't just things. This stuff is autobiographical. It's tangible evidence of who I was at 14, at 17, at 20, at 30. So, they are neatly folded and resting comfortably in a dark, difficult-to-reach corner of my closet. Sure sure, I've heard that the things we own begin to own us. But I'm not sweatin' the three cubic feet that owns me. Well, not yet anyway. We'll see where I'm at when I'm 60. For now, though, I'm just satisfied that I can see my floor again and that wire hangers aren't sticking out from between my clothes at every angle.