I voluntarily put myself on a clothes diet. After splurging a little in Phoenix, right after a generous Christmas, my realistic genes decided to start dominating my designer jeans. I looked in my closet and said, “I have enough.”
Some of you who know me especially well are rubbing your jaws after their unexpected drop to the floor. Sorry about that.
I have always been a clotheshorse, as long as I can remember. My parents will tell you that as a little kid, I changed my clothes several times per day. I remember mixing and matching things in my closet in new ways and feeling like I’d come up with something completely original. And as soon as I had my own job, I loved the freedom of finding and purchasing something fun and new. The youngest of three girls, I was generally wearing my sisters’ well-kept hand-me-downs, and while I didn’t resent it, it felt great to have something that was just for me.
My clothes fetish is only part self-absorbtion. The other part is truly a creative outlet for me. I go completely ga-ga for any form of self-expression. Just like art, music, reading, and writing, I believe that people’s choices are an expression of who they are. Right down to the clothes on their back. I love to pick clothes for Ryan and the kids, especially when it’s something that seems to reflect their very individual personalities.
But the time has come for me to stop for a while and spend a little time mixing and matching what’s already there. Time to get in touch with my inner child. Time to say, “Yes, that is darling/fabulous/exactly what I’ve always wanted/the greatest sale ever, but I don’t need it.”
(Just a second. I need to breathe in a paper bag for a bit.)
I told Ryan about it as we were driving with the Smiths downtown a couple of weeks ago. He and Mr. Smith were planning to attend the Jazz game while Mrs. Smith and I wandered around Gateway. I’m pretty sure Ryan’s reaction was, “Hallelujah!” or something akin to religious fervor. So, during the hours of the game, I wandered the shops and didn’t buy myself anything. I almost tried on a pair of jeans, but thought better. I’ve watched too many Montel Williams “Relapsed and Regretting It” shows to ignore my limitations.
So, now I’m telling you. Not that you should care, but moreso that this can be concrete evidence used to stop me the next time I get the itch to hop in the car and wander the local Winter clearance racks and fresh new looks for Spring. Like right now.
The diet ends in April when we head to New York for our 10 year anniversary. I may be a strong, relatively sensible person, but if you expect me to go to New York City and not purchase a souvie for my closet—you’re smoking some strong crack. But my hope is that by then I will have balanced my contentment with my closet contents, and only invite in the newcomers who really need to be there.
(And by “really need to be there” I mean, “are darling/fabulous/exactly what I’ve always wanted/the greatest sale ever”.)
Wish me luck.
