Sometimes,
there’s no better therapy than cleaning out your wardrobe.
It’s
as if throwing away all those unused clothes signifies a clean slate, a fresh
start – or at the very least room for newer, better things.
I
did this recently.
Most
of my clothes went to charity, but the rest I decided to make some money from
and sell at a vintage market.
I
set up a stall, and as I carefully hung my clothes on the racks, they suddenly
looked like new again – shinier, glossier.
I
had gone into this in sales mode: sell the clothes, pocket the money, done and
dusted. I was hoping to be as clinical as a clinician. I never thought emotions
would come into it. Selling a house, yes. A car, maybe. But clothes?
Yet
I still felt the sting of rejection when shoppers flitted nonchalantly through
my clothes and abruptly turned on their heel, uninterested, to the next rack.
There
was a pang of regret when the designer baby doll dress I bought for $300 – and
had never worn – sold for $40.
And
then came bitterness when a woman smaller than me tried my Sass & Bide
jeans that I could no longer get past my hips and looked…better than I did.
“Look
away,” my friend consoled me, as the girl happily walked away with the jeans
for $30.
“At
least they went to a good home. It’s like the sisterhood of the travelling
pants! Except they, er, just didn’t fit you.”
It’s
not just the pain of someone looking better than you in your own clothes: it’s
the many memories that come swarming back when you remember what you were doing
when you were wearing them. Like perfume, a piece of clothing can instantly trigger
a moment in time.
As
I pulled together my unworn, crumpled clothes from the back of the cupboard, I
was piecing together those significant moments in my life, good and bad.
The
jacket I wore on my very first date with my now partner.
The
dress I wore to my school formal.
The
sweatpants I was wearing when I was told my grandfather had died.
The
red dress I wore when I spent the night crying in a nightclub toilet after a
breakup.
The
top I proudly bought with my very first pay cheque.
Although
some of these clothes didn’t even fit anymore, I wasn’t sure I could bring
myself to put them on the sale rack. I felt like selling and watching someone
else walk away with them was like throwing away a link to a memory.
I
always had visions of me, old and gray and losing my marbles, suddenly being
able to connect the dots through said garments.
One
of the shoppers at the market approached my stall and held up the lace skirt I
was wearing when I had my first kiss.
“This
is beautiful,” she said shyly.
“It
is,” I smiled, secretly wondering how I could somehow snatch it back from her
without causing a fuss.
Although
it didn’t fit me anymore, when I looked at that skirt the same butterflies I
felt back then entered my tummy again. I could even almost smell the (copious
amounts of) Lynx deodorant my date had been wearing and the scent of lavender
outside my house.
“I
was thinking I could wear this to my engagement party,” the woman said,
smiling.
Watching
her eyes light up, my urge to snatch the skirt slowly faded.
I
knew I was being silly, that I’d always have my memories, no matter what – and
rather than sitting in the back of the closet collecting dust, this lace skirt
could have a new life, creating new memories for someone else.
Resisting
the urge to tearfully whisper: “take care of it – it doesn’t respond well to
water above 30 degrees when washing,” I packed the skirt into a bag, pocketed
$30 and locked away a memory in my mental filing cabinet, which will hopefully be
easily found later when I’m old and gray and losing my marbles.
