I’m slightly more brain-dead from the oven cleaner fumes and a bit bruised from falling off the side of the tub taking down the shower curtain, but the worst is yet to come. Going through the closets.
I could no more get rid of all the nowhere-to-wear-them sparkles, sequins, brocade, feathers, lamé, beading etc than I would leave the husband behind at the old place. But if it came down to it…
That pink thing? It’s a reversible, silk damask cape. Of course it is!
And what about the see-through beaded dress I wore in Vegas and got into an accidental and erroneous “turf war” with some working girls? I couldn’t give that away!
Just because I haven’t worn this white, sequined, see-through half-top in 17 years doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings for it still. This is definitely coming, it hardly takes up any room!
The pieces whose histories are intrinsically linked to yours are sometimes impossible to get rid of. They are memory receptacles on a coat hanger, cloth photographs of times and places. The pieces to agonize over seem to always be the 16 almost identical black tee shirts, the will-I-ever-wear-this-again, not very flattering but very comfortable sweatshirt and all that fucking underwear you spent a fortune on but never wear.
And I haven’t even begun on the shoes.