I’m trying to make an effort to (slightly) simplify my life, hence – as Eminem once opined – I’m cleanin’ out my closet.
Like everything else that isn’t urgent, I’ve been putting it on the ultra back burner. There have been more important things to do, like finishing the ‘Bad Monkey’ series. But, a few days ago, it hit me that unless I need a costume, I go to the exact same one-foot-wide section of hangers whenever I choose to not go out shopping naked. No longer afraid of being caught in the camera crosshairs of the ‘National Enquirer’, my exciting ensembles usually consist of jeans; plain, long-sleeved tops; and Skechers. If I’m feeling particularly edgy, I’ll switch out the jeans for black pants.
I figured if I got rid of clothes that I was definitely never going to wear again, I might discover some treasures hiding behind them that would expand the kaleidoscope of my wardrobe.
So, I set up two boxes for the task at hand. One would be for stained, faded or torn items, and the other would be for donations. I figured by the time I’d made my way from one end of the rack to the other, a small group of pieces would remain that both fit me and didn’t have holes in the armpits.
Starting from the left, I first came upon a white top that was semi-transparent and made from unforgiving, skin-hugging material. It also had what could have been either a stubborn meat sauce or hair colour stain near the collar. This was a no-brainer – straight into the rubbish box. The next was a black hoodie with a zip up the front and a couple of bleach marks on the back. The zip had long lost that feature whereby if you pushed the tab down, it would automatically lock in place. This meant that whenever I wore it, I had to keep eyes on it at all times, lest it fly down when I breathed heavily, revealing a bra with a broken underwire. Why oh why had I been hanging onto this? Particularly when I had an identical one that was in much better condition. Into the bin box with it!
The skirt and tank top that followed these two were never going to be worn again – they weren’t my style and would have required a shoe horn and Vaseline to pull them on. They would be donated.
Just when I was going to pat myself on the back at the speed with which I was going through everything, I hit a snag. It came in the form of a red velvet jacket that I had bought years ago and absolutely loved. At one point, I’d actually managed to do the buttons up, and I was the sexiest elf this side of the North Pole. Now, it was at least 100 pounds loss away, but I couldn’t quite give it up. Besides, if I really made the effort, I could probably squeeze back into it by the time I was 60. ¿Cómo se dice “cougar” en español?
That remained on a hanger while I moved on to two dresses and a shawl that had always made me look like the lady who feeds the birds in ‘Mary Poppins’. Donate.
Then there were some flowy pants that had never failed to flatter, about 20lbs ago, but my heel had caught in the hem of one leg and ripped it spectacularly when I was getting into a car at The Ritz-Carlton … classy to the last. I’m about as handy with a needle and thread as I am with mountain climbing gear, but I talked myself into trying to mend them before I threw them out.
Sequined top that looked bedazzled. Donate. Anything with spaghetti straps. Donate. Size 8 black leather vest with a front zipper? Keep. I still have my motorbike licence (yup, it’s true) and if I got six ribs removed, it could fit again.
There were some good choices and some bad. A hoarder’s illness, but there were just a few things I could not bear to part with, even though it was wildly impractical to keep them. I think it partly stems from when I gave a black velvet Betsey Johnson dress to someone because I didn’t think I’d ever wear it again. That had to be at least 20 years ago and I still regret it.
A bunch of jeans had to be thrown away or donated. I have more jeans than anything else, and thanks to my body feature of generous turkey thighs, if I didn’t rotate the pairs often enough, there were always worn patches – followed by gaping holes – in both upper inside legs of many of them. Sometimes I wouldn’t realise that the denim had been breached until I sat down at a bar or restaurant and saw what looked like a baby trying to be born through the tear. Remarkable how my bulging inner thigh can look like a new infant’s head – red and hairless.
As with many tasks I set myself, I started with gusto, but ran out of steam about an hour in. I had definitely made some headway. The boxes were over half-full each and I could see the back of the closet in places, but I was probably going to have to sit down and have a word with myself about some of my more dubious ‘keep’s. I also knew that once I’d finished with the clothes, I’d have to move on to the shoes. I use a whole different set of values for them.
Those Louboutins may have seven-inch heels, and the straps may cut into my ankles, but if I have to pay someone to carry me into an event because I can’t walk, I am never, ever giving them up.
Besides, they’ll go beautifully with my red velvet jacket.
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