Spring Cleaning

I am cleaning my closet.  And no, that is not a euphemism for a colonic.  I have lost at least 200 pounds, though.  Most of it is clothing that I wore when I was, ahem, a few pounds thinner and younger and not sporting a postpartum baby belly.  Although I am keeping the black Gap Maternity rollneck sweater.  No embarrassing label can get me to part with it (And I hate cutting out labels.  Something about possible product liability and tracing the source.  Speak to my subconscious about if you're interested.).  When I am parting ways with articles of clothing, it's surprisingly emotional and conditional.

Sure, there are those easy calls that head to the ignoble pile called "donation."  Thereon lay all the remaining body-hugging Lycra v-necks I used to throw on under size 6 Theory suits in my days as a corporate entertainment lawyer.  So long to that white cotton halter dress still in its dry cleaner's plastic, worn only once, at an audition that I'd longed for.  The tiny miniskirt I wore on the opening night of my first go at producing is also there. 

There are sub-piles:  a series of shorter stacks that go like this: Heavy Winter Sweaters (take to our new storage space downstairs), Homeless Hoodies (figure out where to hang them once and for all - doorknobs are not a solution),  For Ruby (take to the cedar closet in Mom and Dad's attic), So You Think You Can Go Dancing?  (take to storage space and seriously think about whether you should ever wear sequins again, and whether you ever should have to begin with) and Sacred But Unwearable T-Shirts (is it frivolous to obtain a lockbox for these?).

The For Ruby stuff is fun.  There's the gold dress I wore to a law school graduation party, the crocheted shirt I wore to everything and the giant David Byrne suit that surreptitiously passed as law firm attire.   Or so I thought.

As much as I'm unloading here, I'm really only struggling with a tiny portion of it.  It's that part of the closet that I could and would wear but for this nasty bit of pregnancy hangover (to wit: my gut).   I love and respect my body as it is but I am having a hard time with giving up the idea that I can't wear the same stuff I used to, even though I wouldn't buy these things today (I'm not stupid).  I don't want to be that PTA president with the handles that aren't for holding.  I wonder what other moms (and dads) have done about this.  I mean, if you set it free, will a size 6 ever come back to you?  

Comments

[Buck Powers]

Our household is also dealing with the cyclical urge to purge. A couple weeks ago the boys clothes were culled. This is a fifth level of hades experience that involves my wife (who spares me the torture) having the kids try on an endless supply of fabric that is either saved, stuffed in the sack for donation, or put in the tub for next year as they have not quite reached the size of the cousin that has handed it down. This takes HOURS and usually involves a post-trauma cigarette to mollify her.

I do take up slack by heaving stacks of papers into recycling. Seems J cannot let a scrap (literally) of paper go because she has scrawled some number or note on the back of it. In addition, the kids bring home worksheets by the pallet-full. Yes, I'm so proud of my son who brings home a math sheet emblazoned with a red "Whale of a Good Job!" stamp, but I also need to see the top of the kitchen table.

I guess I'm just saying I feel your indecision. And yes, t-shirts are allowed to have their own safe-deposit box.