I was sorting out the summer wardrobe which resides in a chest on my large landing. Reminiscing, as I do, over happy events where I inhabited these clothes.
And then the moment of horror and joy, when I realize that none of it fits me. I've been a long proponent of only having in my life - in racks and closets and drawers - only the clothes and underwear that fit me. Everything else, no matter the price or style or memory, gets tossed. I do not want to evaluate myself by a size number or a perceived dietetic or physicality failure. And my size has fluctuated wildly over the years.
Even my designer outfit, which I wore to my Seanchaí debut is now kaput, a good friend remarked: my gawd when did you start wearing a tent? I hadn't noticed, being swept up, as I was, by my patron's generosity. So yes, two of us could have resided quite happily in the yurt of my top. See above. Yes, a picture of the debut as promised with, through the kindness and skill of my friend Ramana, my anonymity preserved.
So today, as I was sorting through these linens and cottons and silks (Oh joy, summer is sorta here in Newfoundland) only a few of the items fitted. One I had trouble releasing, a favourite linen beige pants, which I upheld with a belt but when I looked in the mirror a drindl skirt effect was evident. Pleats and bunches surrounded my waist, lapping over the belt, drooping in folds, like a toddler's wet nappy, across my smallish arse. Toss.
I packed a huge bag up for charity, glad that someone could now avail of these somewhat lovely clothes. These cottony bits and pieces that no longer belong in my life.
I am simplifying and minimizing.
For after all, how much clothes do I really need?
