The primary rod in my closet collapsed under the weight of desperate optimism.
Three years ago I lost 30 pounds while working in a high profile job. Within a year I bought all the clothing I couldn't afford in my twenties or fit into during my 30s. I was my own Barbie doll.
I found an Ebay source that worked on Talbots catalogue shoots who became my personal dealer for shoes and accessories. I bought their clothing on out of town trips at first, but, once I realized the sizing was consistent, I was a talbots.com animal. The sight of the UPS man walking up our stairs was a frequent one which filled my heart with joy.
This was good when high profile equated high pay. By the time it got to the high turnover place, I already had a summer wardrobe in the upstairs closet and winter downstairs.
Working from home over the next year, I dressed more casually. Given the occasion to dress up a bit, it seemed the seams were getting snug. About three months ago I accepted it was time to get out some of my old (read that larger) clothing for anything that called for more than shorts, jeans or khakis.
Of course I had already bought larger shorts, jeans and khakis and older items migrated from underbed storage containers to hangers in an insidious progression.
I was in the living room Tuesday night when the closet rod gave up the ghost.
I discussed the situation at lunch yesterday. Amy said consignment shop. Anne, who can look chic while bowling, reminded me that she came here from Paris with one suticase. (Ignoring the fact that you can fit a lot more Anne clothing one suitcase than you can Judi clothing).
My husband and I agreed that this not-starving writer is not likely to be able to replace this wardrobe anytime soon and since everyone knows you lose 20 pounds when you sell a book, we would go the storage route. I've been dying to try those Space Bags anyway (symptom one of too much late, late night television) and bought a collection of various bag sizes.
Digging through the closet was an archeological expedition into temporary mania. The number of items that still had sales tags was exceeded only by the things I didn't remember buying. I could outfit an army of stylish matrons.
The clear plastic sacks quickly filled with suits, skirts, slacks, resort wear, evening and business dresses. After a quick accounting of all three cats, I sealed each bag and started the vacuum cleaner. Each sack quickly became a very colorful, highly wrinkled rock less than half its previous size -- fossils of my other life.
There's a lot more room in the closet now. And sitting here in a t-shirt and jeans -- this fits much better.


Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs