Closet Purge

For weeks, “closet purge” topped my list of to-do’s. Finally, I am ready and prepared to be ruthless. Past efforts yielded only pitiful piles destined for Goodwill when I was swayed by sentimentality and wistful hopes for weight change or a return to styles I loved. No more. This time, I will try on each piece, discard it if it doesn’t fit or hasn’t been worn in the last two years. 

Jaw set, I paw through the guestroom closet where I keep dresses and off-season clothes. I pull out all but items I wear regularly and heap them on the bed. The pile of questionable garments is substantial. 

At the back of the closet is an emerald-green, floor-length robe, a gift from Dad maybe 55 years ago. I’ve not worn it in over 40 years, but I think it’s the only garment Dad ever gave me. Still, the time has come. I fold it up and put it in the Goodwill bag. 

My, I have a lot of dresses! When did I wear them all? The evening dresses were for school benefits and Christmas parties, but what about all these fun tea-length items? Some are so eighties, with spikey, uneven, swirly skirts. Others have wild geometric patterns, and I have accumulated a surprising number of fitted black numbers with spaghetti straps. Given sunspot-speckled skin and biceps that sag rather than bulge, my spaghetti strap days  are over… but I try them on anyway. 

I stand in the hall before the mirror, an old one more speckled and aged than I am, so it’s forgiving. From the end of the hall, in dim light, with my near-sighted eyes, the lines in my face don’t show. I turn and twirl a little. Not so bad, and I do like this dress… 

I start a “maybe” pile on the floor.

Have to say, past purge regrets haunt me. A purple pantsuit with zoot suit shoulders and a belted waist. A slinky 80’s dress with fitted black torso, puffy white sleeves, and a flounced white skirt – my “Chiquita banana” dress – so unique! So fun! Too-tight Victoria Secret jeans cast off in 2007 that would have fit perfectly post-cancer in 2010. So, ruthlessness must be tempered with reflection. An imperfect fit or passé style warrants a decision not necessarily the discard pile.

I mull over the dresses I wore to Tucker and Casey’s weddings. I might not wear them again, but they hold memories of pinnacle moments, so they return to the closet. And the floral 70’s sundress I’ve hung onto for 50 years? It’s vintage for heaven’s sake! So, I keep it.

What’s this? A funereal black sheath with long gauzy sleeves and a scooped neck. It must have been my grandmother’s, or even my great-grandmother’s. How did it wind up with me? I have several of Mom’s dresses, those I can remember her wearing, so maybe this spooky dress was mixed up with them. It goes into the Goodwill bag momentarily, but I pull it out. It might be worth something, who knows? 

Still, I’m making progress. I have a small pile for the garbage, a bag for Casey, and two full bags for Goodwill. I haven’t attacked the chest full of summer clothes yet, and I know there are plenty of too-short shorts and tee-shirts too tight or too-cropped for 73-year-old Lea. Souvenir/statement shirts from Salem, Red Sox games, the Women’s March, and my new No Kings shirt from the Bruce Springsteen concert will remain. Close to a century’s parade of passing fashion, personal history, and current events hangs in my closet or fills these bags. 

Some readers might be feeling a tug of worry in recalling my hasty discard of Mom’s boots when the sole fell off during a visit to Switzerland. You might be thinking, “About that green robe your dad gave you? Beware of second thoughts.”

You’re right. Of course you are. I rifle through the Goodwill bag, reclaim the robe, and return it to the closet.