Confessions from my Closet

 I have a confession to make: I own too many clothes. 

Here's an even more revealing confession: I've recognized that I hold onto clothes because of fond memories I have of wearing them. 

Yesterday after I did my laundry, I looked in my closet trying to find hangers for my clean clothes. 

No empty hangers. 

In a desperate search for a hanger, I thrust my arm into the closet and rummaged around in my tightly packed shirts. That's when I noticed a lovely cobalt blue top. I'd forgotten about this cute top, buried deep in my closet. Cobalt is one of my favorite colors. I look great in cobalt! This top is sleeveless and flouncy with an overlay of cobalt lace. I remembered its flattering drape. I have fond memories of wearing that top and feeling amazing wearing it. Empowered. Even beautiful. And sexy.

How long has it been since I've worn this cute top? I asked myself. Six years? Seven?

I couldn't remember. It's true that the global pandemic kept me socially distanced for two years, but I'm getting out and about now. And it's summer. Yet I haven't worn this cute, flattering summery top. Why?

Ten seconds later, after pulling this top over my head, I remembered. This cute top is too tight across my chest. The armholes are too tight. Instead of elegantly draping, it announces to the world that I have a tummy. The top hasn't changed, but my body has. This top no longer fits me. It's no longer flattering. It's downright uncomfortable! 

When I try to take off the top, it gets stuck around my chest. I might have to wear this top forever! After careful tugging, I'm finally freed. 

Curious about the size, I look at the tag. No wonder it doesn't fit. It's smaller than my current clothes. To fit into this size, I would have to exercise nonstop like an Olympic gymnast and starve myself like a supermodel. I'm 62 years old. I'm no longer willing to do that to my body.

Time to let it go, I tell myself. Time to let some other woman wear this top, look in the mirror and tell herself: I look beautiful!

Farewell to my lovely cobalt top!

I take a photo of my lovely cobalt top to remember it. Then I remove it from the hanger, gently fold it and drop it into a brown paper grocery bag. 

I found a hanger!

I look at my overstuffed closet and know I can find more hangers for the clothes I actually wear. Clothes that have earned the right to take up prime real estate in my one clothes closet.

Before I can stop myself, a full-frenzied Marie Kondo session ensues. I pull out tops, pants, skirts and dresses from my closet--and then my dresser. I cover my bed with a mountain of clothing. But unlike Marie Kondo, who asks: Does it bring me joy? I ask myself:

• How long has it been since I've worn this? 
• Does it still fit? (If I'm in doubt, I try it on.)
• Does it look good on me--or is it just covering my body?
• Do I feel good wearing this? Do I feel great? Beautiful? Amazing? Empowered? 
• Where will I wear this? 
• What will I wear this with?
• How many tops do I need?
• Am I hanging onto this because I'm associating it with fond memories of wearing it?
• Is it time to let it go and let some other woman wear it?

Marie Kondo attacked my closet!

I said goodbye to a favorite pair of slacks I wore as a newspaper reporter. I bought them 10 years ago and wore them twice a week for four and a half years. That's roughly 468 times I wore those pants as a journalist and felt professional and empowered doing my job.

I said goodbye to a pair of Columbia Sportswear hiking capris that are too small. I have newer hiking capris that fit and I feel fabulous in them. 

I said farewell to two black skirts that are too small and no longer fit my life. Too dressy. They'd require heels. I haven't owned heels in years.

I said farewell to a few sleeveless summer tops I'd bought at thrift shops several years ago, but haven't worn since 2016 or 2017. Five or six years ago. Time to go!

I said "adios" to a pair of quick-dry capris that I used to wear when I paddled a dragon boat. They are too tight--and now I own better pants for water sports.

I said "no way" to two favorite pair of jeans that are NEVER going to fit me again--and that's okay.

Again and again, I said goodbye to clothing that no longer fit or I no longer wore. About an hour later, I'd filled three brown grocery bags with clothes to donate. 

I found enough hangers to hang all my freshly laundered clothes. 

My organized closet: Only clothes that fit me--the size I am today.
And only clothes I love to wear. 

     

Now my closet and my dresser contain only clothes that I wear. Not clothes that might fit me some day when I've lost 10 pounds. When I'm the perfect size, when I'm the perfect me. 

Finally, at age 62, I've realized something so important 

that I want to shout it to every woman: 

At this very moment

I am the perfect size! 

I am the perfect me!

It's time live my life with no regrets. That includes wearing clothes that are comfortable and make me feel beautiful and empowered, no matter what their size. Or mine.