I cleaned out my bedroom closet today. Before starting, I commanded myself to show no mercy: if it doesn’t fit, it goes; if it has holes in it, it goes; if it hasn’t been worn at least once during the last six months, it goes.
Among the items that went:
* A sweater I wore when I was going out with my first boyfriend.
* A tie-dyed Indian cotton shirt from my brief but still unfortunate hippie phase.
* Two ankle-length black skirts from my somewhat lengthier goth phase.
* A pair of silk boxer shorts the Ex gave me for christmas.
* Three bras from the 38B era.
* Eight oversized black t-shirts.
* Four oversized suit jackets.
* Three pairs of jeans with holes in the knees, crotch, and/or ass.
* The miniskirt I wore when I went dancing at the Twilight Zone.
* Two pairs of ratty fishnets—one black, one purple.
* A souvenir t-shirt from New York City.
* A pair of Op-Art tights purchased at an open-air market in Belgrade.
* A thoroughly ridiculous coat I bought at Le Chateau when I was sixteen and have carted around with me ever since.
There are, I confess, several items I talked myself into keeping:
* A pair of long silk gloves. (Hey, you never know...)
* A lace garter belt. (See above.)
* A “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” t-shirt that is as thin as rice paper and still has black nail polish on it.
* A souvenir t-shirt from the 1989 Anarchist Unconvention in San Francisco.
* The leather coat my dad wore in the 1960s.
Tomorrow, I will carry four garbage bags of clothes down to the curb for pick-up and I won’t look back. I won’t, will I?