the range of clothing sizes in my closet is growing at roughly the same rate as the size of my ass.
each article of clothing found in that closet represents a dream, a stage of my past life or present tense. i can pick up a sweater and remember when i last wore it and how it felt or made me feel. i can pick up a pair of pants and remember wistfully when my thighs were that slim and gaze in wonder why at that point in my life did i think i looked fat? i can remember the male friend who remarked that yes, i did indeed have a shelf-ass and the ensuing laughter that following at my posterior's expense.
even with my many sizes, no matter how awful it may look now if i can even get it over the rolls, i have trouble parting with a garment. to rehome that pair of pants signals defeat in any future attempts to wedge my shelf ass into them. what a sad day!
the day i decided to throw away my only pair of size 6 jeans - ever - i died a little on the inside as i cried a bit more on the outside. the pain never quite goes away after that, although the next time it happens, the healing time shrinks a little like throwing cotton pants in the drying for too long.
the process to decide to part with those pants or sweaters is a lengthy one. by the time i've developed the kutzpah to admit defeat and rehome the close, they are often hopelessly out of fashion. admittedly, i am not a fashion-plate to begin with, add the measure of time and well, we're going old school. my poor skinny friends (da bitches!) who inherit them can only finish what i halfheartedly start by giving them their final nudge to good will.
in the good ol' days when i used to shop at goodwill and salvation army (salvo to those in the know), i used to wonder who got rid of all these wonderful clothes. now i know -- some other radically shrinking or expanding folks.
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