I just cleaned out my closet the other day, I swear, but given the frequency with which my children delve here for “costumes,” it would seem I have more work to do.
Not two feet in and the questions begin.
Why do I buy T-shirts from Wal-Mart? One wash and they shrink to toddler size. And yes, I’m blaming shrinkage and not my widening body, although I’m sure that doesn’t help either.
I can’t wear a scarf for more than five minutes without feeling like I’m being strangled, so why on God’s green Earth do I own fifteen of them?
If I get rid of half my purses and shoes, I’d just end up replacing them, so what’s the point? If I keep my collection intact I’m actually saving money. Shut up, it’s only hoarding if you can’t see the floor.
Why do I own so many bras? Not one of them does the job comfortably. I would toss them all and go native, but I’ve been battling gravity for a while now, and I refuse to let it get the upper hand.
Do I keep these love letters from my husband? Sentiment says “yes,” but what if I die tomorrow and my kids read them? I’ll have to sort through them and pick some of my favorites that aren’t too steamy to keep – I’d hate to cause my children to gouge out their own eyes.
Sweet baby Jesus in a onesie – are these shoulder pads? I’ve struck the eighties here, people. I’m in too deep! The Goodwill pile behind me is threatening to bury me. I consider digging deeper, in hopes of stumbling across a road flair, when I hear my children calling. I shout for help. “Go back! Save yourselves! Tell Dad to rent a backhoe!”
My youngest child peers over the pile of clothes. “This is a lot of stuff to try on.”
Try them on? That would be terribly embarrassing.
“Excellent idea. Prepare to be entertained, my friend.”
Looking like an idiot in outdated clothes that don’t fit is a blow to the old ego, to be sure, but well-worth the laugh.