My clothes are afraid of me. This is not the first time this has happened. When I was pregnant with twins (and was giving Pluto a run for its money in the “is is a planet?” department), I could hear my favorite pair of maternity jeans scream each time I reached for them, and am fairly certain that one of my husband’s fleece tops moved towards the back of the closet one day when I was contemplating my layering options. I pulled the top anyway; it and the jeans proceeded to emit a low moan throughout the day.
Now, however, my clothes are not afraid of being stretched to their limits (at least, I don’t think they are). Rather, they are worried about being wrested from friends and family and deposited in the foreign lands that are the consignment store and the Northwest Center donation bin. For this diet has made me ruthless. It’s a bit surprising: in September, having committed to not buying any new duds for a year, I figured I would hold all those I had dear. I would resdiscover (and reuse) neglected friends; I would mix things up and discover snazzy new wardrobe permutations. I would – as they say – shop my closet.
For a while, that happened (see prior post re dress from space). But, after sporting a few ill conceived ensembles, I realized that certain of my clothes were neglected not because I had forgotten about them, or because I had failed to appreciate all of their wonderful qualities, but because I really did not like them. Either they did not suit me (filmy tank top/blouson thing), they aged me (Macy’s tropical print top), they drew attention to the less appealing parts of my person (no one needs to see my knees), or they were just kind of ugly (Halloween orange J. Crew cardigan, which I am certain was a different color online). I kept some of them for sentimental reasons – hello, unflattering bridesmaid dresses – and some because I was reluctant to admit my mistake in buying them. But I realized that – to paraphrase Old Blue Eyes- if I was not excited about wearing them here (and now), I would not be excited about wearing them anywhere. They had to go.
So, last week, I went through my ever-dwindling closet and pulled out 25 pieces: clothing, mostly, but also a few unfortunate accessories. I made an appointment at Labels consignment store, in Greenwood, which I chose largely because the woman who answered the phone was pleasant (those who have consigned know this is not always the case). This afternoon, I left my pieces to find new homes with people who will appreciate their tropical prints, higher hemlines, and – in the case of a pair of linen pants – love of the iron.
All this divesting left me with a short list of things I would like have once I am buying clothes again. To wit: (a) a pair of jeans that fit well; (b) a dress that I can wear to work and to day/casual weddings, bridal showers, etc.; and (c) a patterned spring skirt that I can wear both to work and on the weekends. See, I told you it was short.
As I am browsing through the racks at the consignment store, waiting for the owner to review my offerings, there it is: my spring skirt. Boden, my size (in a long, even), hitting just below the knee and thus complying with my no knee maxim. It fits. It is $24. I frantically email my husband, asking if he will “buy” it for my birthday. But I know in my heart of hearts that this is cheating – that I am buying it for myself, that even if he says yes and I turn it over to him once I get home, I will have broken the diet. I agonize. I try to refocus on the accessories (which are, by the way, pretty great). I peruse the kids’ clothes (also pretty great). And then I walk up to the register, fill out my consignment contract, and buy the skirt. I tried to rationalize it - I thought about my purchase, I bought something I needed, I bought what I could afford, I was being environmentally friendly by purchasing secondhand attire (I was stretching on that one). Ultimately, however, I know I caved, and I am disappointed in myself.
I take some solace in the fact that I was a conscious consumer, that my wish list is now two items long, and that I plan to see this thing through (with just one asterisk) until September. I expect I will also take solace on Mother’s Day, when I open up my $24 skirt and pair it with one of the remaining pieces of clothing in my now seriously edited closet.
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HA! Love your post… so funny. I, too, found it ironic that I ended up donating some of my clothes AFTER joining TGAAD.
I think you experienced a very conscious and purposeful “cheat” that was well aligned with the greater goals and objectives you’ve set for yourself in your life. Hopefully THAT (and the fact that you ‘fessed up’ to it here) should help alleviate any guilt you may be feeling!
This is great! Way to go! And, btw, I have said this before but I will say it yet again–I think that buying at a consignment store (as long as you don’t purchase more than you consign) qualifies as a clothing swap with people you don’t know, and clothing swaps are encouraged by TGAAD. So I would argue that you didn’t cheat at all!
Kristin, I sooooo feel your pain. I did the same with my closet and now I seriously need some new clothes!!! This is killing me!