I’m not sure what came over me, perhaps fear of the IRS, but on Monday morning I finally got all our tax stuff together, laid hands on it and prayed for mercy, then sent it all to our accountant so he can call us in a few weeks and let us know how many weeks we’re going to have to eat hot dogs without buns (or if it’s really bad, buns without hot dogs) to be able to write a check to the government. For obvious reasons, this will be more painful this year than ever before and not just because I’d rather spend the money on a new pair of shoes or granite countertops.
I have a tendency to obsessively clean and throw out clutter when I start to feel like things are out of my control, so I guess that’s why I came home from the post office and decided I couldn’t wait another minute before I cleaned out my closet and put up all my winter clothes. It has been the coldest winter I can remember and they are all officially dead to me. Except for my Timberland boots. They still have my heart. I just don’t want to wear them again for another six months.
So I began the process of switching out my winter clothes with my summer clothes. And, honestly, it was depressing because I wasn’t nearly as excited to see the majority of my summer clothes as I hoped I’d be. I had kind of hoped that maybe, against all odds, they’d spent the winter procreating at the top of my closet and making all manner of cute skirts, tops and a great pair of nude wedge heels. But no. It was the same sad assortment of clothes that I put up last October. No new skirts. No cute tops. A nary a pair of nude wedge heels to be found.
I’m trying to console myself with the fact that once summer actually gets here I won’t care about looking cute as much as trying to stay cool. Which means all I’ll really need is a swimsuit. Never mind. I just got more depressed.
And I’m also pretty sure I hear the voice of Jillian Michaels taunting me.
Whenever I clean out my closet I make a point of giving away anything I haven’t worn during whatever season just ended, so I made a pile of a few sweaters, faded turtlenecks that shouldn’t have made the cut last year, and a few unfortunate pairs of pants.
Like these.
Red corduroy pants. I don’t even know what to say.
But for every item that doesn’t make the closet cut, there are those that do and probably shouldn’t.
I wore that dress to my ten year high school reunion and many of you may remember that I attended my TWENTY year high school reunion this past summer. I know I’ll never wear it again, mainly because it’s a size 0. And, let’s be honest, that paisley isn’t helping matters.
But yet I can’t throw it out because I LOVED it when I bought it. From Harold’s. Eleven years ago.
There’s also this.
I bought this when Gulley and I went to New York back in 2002. I’d just been through a miserable summer after having a terrible miscarriage and decided that nothing would make me feel better than owning a long denim jacket with a big fake fur collar.
I blame the hormones and the sorrow.
I’ve worn it one time, but yet it remains because it reminds me of a time when I believed that wearing Chewbaca as a collar would make me feel better.
Oh, this zebra skirt.
I bought it to wear to my sister’s rehearsal dinner and I don’t know that I’ve ever liked a piece of clothing as much as I liked this skirt. My sister and her husband are about to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary, the hem of that skirt is way too long and it has turquoise fringed beading. Yet it remains.
Maybe Caroline can wear it to a LATE 90’s theme party someday.
And then there’s my last black business suit.
It’s the last wardrobe evidence of my career in pharmaceutical sales. And if I had to actually put it on I’d probably break out in hives and start to hyperventilate.
Or I might begin to give you a lecture on the importance of a cholesterol medication raising your hdl while it simultaneously lowers you ldl. And then offer to bring you Chinese food if you’d just please prescribe my drug so I don’t get fired.
I tell myself that I can’t get rid of it because what if some super important business opportunity comes up and I need to look professional?
Because what looks more professional than a five year old black suit with a greasy Kung Pao chicken stain on the lapel?
Lastly, there is the Nicole Miller dress.
I paid way too much for it back in 2001, but it was worth it. Gulley and I call it the miracle dress because it sucks everything in and makes you look instantly thinner.
Sadly, I thought the miracle could work for me in September of 2003. I’d just had Caroline five weeks earlier and was invited to a friend’s ultra-fancy 40th birthday party. Somehow I Spanxed, girdled, and lacquered myself into that dress for the party. I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life, but I thought I looked good. Bless my heart.
Photographic evidence would later reveal that I looked like a sausage stuffed into a beautifully embroidered Asian casing. I’m keeping the dress as a reminder that just because you can get something on doesn’t mean you should wear it out in public.
The good news is that my closet is officially clean and will remain that way for at least the next day and a half or until I can’t find my favorite pair of jeans.
Wow. I own a lot of white shirts.
