As many of you know, I am something of a stuff-purger. For some vague, unknowable reason, owning a lot of stuff makes me truly uncomfortable. Yet I keep buyin’ things, year after year, always ending up with more things than I need, which must then be foisted off on friends or charity. The cycle is endless.
(Are you thinking “wow, I should never buy Rebekah presents again“? There is great wisdom in this thought.)
However, over the years I’ve learned not to purge clothing right off the bat. For one thing, my tastes and weight fluctuate. Secondly, as soon as you get rid of that __________, some style blogger will discover some fabulous new way to wear __________ that looks downright snappy. Lastly (and selfishly), I once handed down some really, really cool clothes to a family friend… and then had to see her wear them to church for weeks/months/years. I pined for them, and became much more cautious about compulsive toss-fests.
During a closet clean-out in June, I sorted out all my most dull, drab, overly conservative clothes and tucked them into a garment box. My plan was to leave these clothes packed away for a month, perhaps two or three, and see if I missed them at all before chucking them willy-nilly. I dubbed this project “The Chopping Box,” and tucked said box under my bed feeling very, very clever indeed.
Can you guess where my plan went wrong?
Yep. Moldgate, as Old Jake dubbed the event. The box fell to pieces when I tried to pull it from under the bed, and the garments inside weren’t lookin’ much better.
If my mother were here, she would say The Universe clearly doesn’t want me in dull, drab, overly conservative clothes.
Universe, you win.