The roommate* and I had a spring cleaning moment a few weeks ago. We attacked the cupboards. (Although if it was a battle, I’m really not sure if it was us who won.)
Everything was taken out, with the intention of keeping only the very best and the very worn of our clothes. No more when-i’m-thin-agains. No more this-WAS-my-favourites. No more saving-for-winters. We were ruthless. We each cast a critical eye over the other’s wardrobe, ayeing and naying piece after piece of clothing into give away, throw away and put away piles.
Our cupboards were now neat, organized and full of clothes we would wear (fit into) and look fabulous in.
End of story? Not quite.
As is our sometimes weekend ritual, last Sunday, we decided to brunch out.
So I dove into my now neat and organized cupboard of clothes I would wear (fit into) and look fabulous in. Technically, I should have been able to wear anything I wanted to. And this is when I realised that there is a conspiracy of clothes.
The truth is we don’t wear clothes. Clothes wear us. And they have bloody hormonal mood swings about how and when they want to wear us. If those jeans don’t want to be wearing your hips, say hello to muffin top. If that shirt, that fit like a dream just last week, doesn’t feel like going for brunch, even your military-standard minimizing bra won’t convince those buttons to stay together. Even the damned wrap-around skirt, that would fit both a size 0 and a size 20, won’t fit a size me on a bad day.
And I’m not mistakenly dipping into my when-i’m-thin-agains (yes, I kept some). These clothes are clothes from my can-wear-will-wear-do-wear pile.
And on another day, I just know that these shirts, skirts and their other evil cohorts will just slip on and hug my lady curves like they’re supposed to.
WTF?
*I say roommate but we don’t share a room. We share a house. Housemate sounds frumpy. Roommate sounds more pillowfighty and fun.
Everything was taken out, with the intention of keeping only the very best and the very worn of our clothes. No more when-i’m-thin-agains. No more this-WAS-my-favourites. No more saving-for-winters. We were ruthless. We each cast a critical eye over the other’s wardrobe, ayeing and naying piece after piece of clothing into give away, throw away and put away piles.
Our cupboards were now neat, organized and full of clothes we would wear (fit into) and look fabulous in.
End of story? Not quite.
As is our sometimes weekend ritual, last Sunday, we decided to brunch out.
So I dove into my now neat and organized cupboard of clothes I would wear (fit into) and look fabulous in. Technically, I should have been able to wear anything I wanted to. And this is when I realised that there is a conspiracy of clothes.
The truth is we don’t wear clothes. Clothes wear us. And they have bloody hormonal mood swings about how and when they want to wear us. If those jeans don’t want to be wearing your hips, say hello to muffin top. If that shirt, that fit like a dream just last week, doesn’t feel like going for brunch, even your military-standard minimizing bra won’t convince those buttons to stay together. Even the damned wrap-around skirt, that would fit both a size 0 and a size 20, won’t fit a size me on a bad day.
And I’m not mistakenly dipping into my when-i’m-thin-agains (yes, I kept some). These clothes are clothes from my can-wear-will-wear-do-wear pile.
And on another day, I just know that these shirts, skirts and their other evil cohorts will just slip on and hug my lady curves like they’re supposed to.
WTF?
*I say roommate but we don’t share a room. We share a house. Housemate sounds frumpy. Roommate sounds more pillowfighty and fun.
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