My love of clothing seems almost inborn, but I can remember treasuring things sartorial at least as far back as my 5th birthday. My Grandma K gifted me with the Grape Dress - a pink seersucker number with an oversized bib made to look like I was wearing a big bright bunch of embroidered grapes around my collar. The pockets were matching grape clusters and I wore the shit out it. It was dressy enough to wear to church, casual enough for everyday wear, and I think I even threw it on over my swimsuit to wear to the pool.
I still love clothes and feel like I'm in a wardrobe honeymoon period since I really only figured out how to put them on my body in a not-unfortunate manner a few years ago. Of course, I don't love parting with money and feel pretty lousy sometimes about my love of Stuff.
While an ill-considered trip to Target usually leaves me feeling dazed (oh, and poor), a successful thrift store haul warms me all day with a glowing sense of victory. I went to the local Volunteers of America with the intention of donating the huge Hefty bag I'd stuffed full of old and weird-fitting clothes, anticipating the imminent combining of respective Stuffs with my boyfriend in June. Not sure if it counts as purging when you come home with nearly as much in purchases.
In my haul:
- A pair of linen Gap trousers I bought in a size up thinking they'd be impossibly cozy - nope, they fit right as rain and will probably be snug after a wash cycle. Cooool. I guess when Nick and I order appetizers, dessert, and beer, cheering "wedding diet!", it actually goes somewhere.
- Rust-colored cardigan with oversize bloused sleeves. I'm surprised that this even works! I typically do not feel comfortable exaggerating my proportions given that I am already slightly, um, Brick House.
- Swingy magenta jersey dress originally from H&M to wear to Sara's May wedding.
- A-line batik-print skirt three sizes too big - to the alteration pile for a high waisted, full skirt for work. Thank you, elegant aging hippie ladies of Clintonville for your Anthropologie-esque donations to our neighborhood thrift store.
That accounts for less than half of my purchases. Basically, I don't have a leg to stand on in telling Nick he has to seriously send 1/3 of his clothes packing if we are going to share a bedroom in earnest. Dude has a staggering number of sweat-stained, stretched out T-shirts. From high school. In the 90s.
It has occurred to me that the first few months of this cohabitation venture might be touch-and-go.