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 I finally cleaned out my closet.
No, not a euphemism on purging the final remnants of a confusing time in my sexuality or pretence for exorcising ghosts of boyfriends past; I did in fact do a much-needed cull of my wardrobe. I’m amazed at how many clothes I’ve accumulated over the years. So many, that my closet is dangerously close to being filled to the rafters. I’m not really a hoarder but I can’t bear to chuck out any of my old couture. But short of being featured on one of those dodgy current affairs programs or killed in an avalanche of sartorial proportions, last week’s effort was a necessary exercise in ruthlessness and abandon. The plan: to get rid of anything I haven’t worn in more than a year. Simple as that. Didn’t get far before I got sidetracked. I found a shirt – a light-blue Saba summer number – that used to be a favourite. It was the shirt I wore when I met my first boyfriend, Adam, and by coincidence, was also the shirt I had on when we broke up many months later. Bittersweet memories. There was the slightly ripped jumper from when a domestic argument spilled over to a real fight. The shorts from overseas my departed Grandma gave as a gift when she visited for what turned out to be the very last time. The overworn tracksuit pants from Kmart, considered a luxurious purchase at the time when we didn’t have much in the way of finance. And the T-shirts from an ex when things were still good. But along with the sad memories that surfaced came tragically funny ones. The well-intentioned purchase of a muscle top two sizes too small. Even now. A long sleeved pullover too ghastly even for a hobo to wear. Tight, polyester, 70s inspired shirts from my freshly-out gay days. And baggy jeans galore from a rather forgotten ‘homie gangsta’ period. Amidst the mountains of synthetic fibres and unnaturally coloured fabrics, I stopped for a moment and realised for the first time why I’ve hung on to these clothes for so very long. Not for the hope of getting to wear them again – Technicolor tees will never come back into fashion, thank goodness – but because it’s astonishing the kind of feelings and memories we attach to material things and how much of this still comes flooding back, even after so much time has passed. Just take a look at your own closet: how much of your own bring a sense of nostalgia? Eventually, I managed to get through the whole pile. All my old stuff is bagged and ready to be given away to charity. What a cathartic experience! The clothes I actually wear now have room to breathe. Although, looking at it now, I may have been a tad too zealous in the culling. There just seems to be a little too much space between the hangers and piles. I guess there’s only one thing I need to do to remedy that. A spot of retail therapy! Uncle Kev would be so proud.
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