It Happened One Wifebeater

I wasn't expecting an excess of white tank tops to inspire an emotional reaction. They did, though. As I cleaned out my closet and armoire last weekend, I saw myself as if from a distance, and it was embarrassing.

Anyone experienced in periodic closet rejuvenation can testify that the mess gets worse before it gets better. At the apex of my task, there were mounds of clothing covering the bed as well as the floor. Gobs of hangers everywhere. And ultimately, a feeling of apathy and futility hanging in the air.

There is something inherently sad about sorting though old clothing. It is looking at who you were not too long ago, but long enough to give you a bit of objectivity. Kind of nostalgic, and also bitter, because these are ultimately parts of yourself that you don't wish to revisit, and are throwing away.

I counted 20 identical white tank tops and about 40 pairs of black tights, some still in their packaging. The tank tops and tights spoke clearly to me of a person who was and is afraid of falling into disrepair and shabbiness. I began to think about my buying habits, which are often about obtaining multiple versions of the same garment. While I can justify this ad nauseaum, I know that there is a thin line between having a closet full of uniforms and closet full of the fear of never having enough.