purge

I have too much stuff and I’m going to move. And I’m just wondering, as I survey my four garbage bags full of clothes, why have I kept so many of these? I wear the same four garments over and over, with a change for an occasion more or less formal than usual. It’s not that I don’t like the clothes I don’t wear—I just don’t wear them. They belong, I suppose, to someone that I used to be. They are discarded cocoons. And for that reason, I hang on to them, to remind me of where I’ve been.

But I’m moving and I don’t want to pay the price in coin or trouble to bring them all along with me. The memories are in my head. So I’m cataloguing my old clothes, to preserve the shades I have grown out of.

Starting with—the large white industrial-strength t-shirt that says “surfer” across the front in olive letters. I love that shirt until I actually put it on. No matter how many times I’ve washed it, it doesn’t get soft. It came from Glenn, a surfer nearly twice my age who used to come in to flirt with me at the coffee shop where I worked the summer between freshman and sophomore year of school. When he found out I was going back to school, he took off the shirt right in front of me and gave it to me—I’d admired it before and said I wanted one like it. And he gave it to me. He had nice eyes and bright blonde hair, and a girlfriend that nagged him and also had a kid.

My Joe’s Jeans. The first pair of designer jeans I ever owned. They didn’t ever fit quite right, but I still wore them every day because they were designer, and there was a bird embroidered on the back pocket. I remember staring at the “distressed” patch just under my right hip, while I sat on the dock with the first boy I loved under the stars, almost nauseous with longing and fear of what he might do to me. And he did it, too. But I guess I survived, didn’t I? Goodbye, jeans.

Little black chiffon skirt with tiny white pindots. Bought with a “gift card” that came with the caveat that I open a credit card at the Limited, in an attempt to get something for free—I ended up paying more for it than the price advertised, on account of the company not canceling the card and charging me late fees. Lesson learned.

Pale blue striped pajama pants—only because I fear I will never find another pair as perfect, have I held onto these old faded practically transparent things. Fear is not a good reason for doing anything.

Gauzy white top, long sleeves and scoop neck, perfect for layering but not anything else, really. I like the long seam down the back. But come on. It reminds me of the body I used to have. If I’m ever to have that body again, it will probably be when I stop reproaching myself for not having it. And this shirt remains as a reproach.

The pale blue, square-necked shirt with three-quarter sleeves that has always been a little too short for how I like them. My first Free People purchase. And my souvenir of my first summer in New York City. I bought it at Filene’s Basement on Union Square. I wore it a lot during the duration of the summer in France.

Flowered tube top from A & F. Stupid. Trying to take my mind off the misery of the summer after I graduated from college. Wore it to a couple of Bible studies. Constantly tugging at it to stay where I wanted it.

Grey cashmere zip-up sweater with hood that I stole from the closet at the fitness studio where I worked for a hot second. Sayonara, Physique57! Happiness to you and Kelly Ripa.

Royal blue Mary Green bra—I mean, who buys a blue bra and wears it?

Lots of Mary Green bras—I wore them out. So comfortable. But it’s time for something new.

Black velvet pants—lots of dancing in them. Lots of parties when I was feeling fat. Pants that were too heavy for dancing, really. I’ve changed. I bought them as an homage to Christy Turlington, who was wearing them in a Christmas edition of O magazine, with a white tank top. I never looked like her, alas. The pants could not accomplish that.

Black sateen skirt gathered on the sides like a theatre curtain with cheap lace and sequins dangling on the ends of the strings. Bought it to look vaguely rockabilly and MoulinRouge-esque. I guess I did. Should have worn it more often while it fit. It didn’t fit for very long, did it?

Blue and white striped t-shirt from J. Crew that says C’est La Vie, which is why I bought it, in a size too big. Do you really need a shirt that says that?

Little black boxer shorts with white polka dots. Bought in the hope that someone would be around to see me get out of bed in them. Dumbass.

Kneelength charcoal shorts with pinstripes. So long, so wrong.

Black undies bought against better judgment—too cheeky. Trying too hard.

Here’s to clothes I like and that like me.