Memories from My Closet

I was recently purging my closet of memories in the guise of rarely-worn youthful ensembles. These pretty outfits have outlived my youth, those reminders of my fashionable past.

I dug through the hanging witnesses to my life. As I dragged out each relic, visions of  my past lives arose. I realized the last time I cleaned my closet was when I retired in 2007.  

That year, I had celebrated my permanent work release by cooking all Tim and my favorite dishes. I enjoyed every bite of lasagna, ziti, fried chicken, quiches, pot roast, pizza, meatloaf, mac and cheese, roast beef sandwiches, the list goes on and on. All meals followed a cocktail hour(s) of martinis, extra dry. I am ashamed to admit that over the course of a few years I gained 40 pounds. It was a happy weight gain. I relished every lip-smacking bite of each meal, every sip of extra-dry Martinis. 

Reality is sometimes vicious. Mine arrived in the form of a photograph. In the photo I appear happy.  But at 160 pounds there was no denying it. I reasoned that a photo adds five pounds to your image. No. This was not just

the photo. This was me. As my father-in-law

informed me, “You used to look like a movie star. Now you’re all plumped up.” That hurt, but mirrors and tactless father-in-laws don’t lie. I had “plumped up,” outliving  my wardrobe in years and pounds.

Pacific Coast, Oregon

Something had to change. Over the years I dieted and lost about twenty pounds. Then Covid arrived. Covid destroyed my tastebuds, my sense of smell, and my delight in cooking and devouring my favorite meals. I shed the pounds and still have not gained them back. I discovered that attempting to gain weight is harder than one would think. I was getting tired of people asking me if I was sick. No, it was the aftermath of Covid. My sense of taste and smell varies to this day, thwarting my past love of many foods. My body has changed, as well as my wardrobe choices.

This brings me back to the strenuous honesty of examining my history in fabric. The irony is

that all these frocks, sequined tops and splashy leggings now fit. Memories hang forlornly in my closet, mocking me. Today, I can fit into these beautiful costumes of my youth. They might fit my body, but not the times or my age. How can I throw these memory-soaked beauties into the dustbin of discards?

The blank stare into my closet turns into vehement action. I rip the sheer, sequined top worn at

a long-ago birthday party from its cloth-covered (never wire)  hanger. In my mind, it cries plaintively, “NO! Not me! Remember all those good times we had?”  I ignore the recollection and throw it into the heap at my feet. The pile of discards grows. It includes a pretty flowered top which once was youthful, but now adorns me like an old-lady’s house dress. Is that who I have become? Youthful outfits that are either too “young” or make me look “too old?” 

I waver over several items, including the once skin tight black satin pants. They now fit me comfortably. I recall the martini I spilled on them. My past confronts me. Save or discard? Black satin pants, really? Why not? That little voice in my mind asks.  I allow them a reprieve and gently place them back on the rack. Is it my imagination or did the robust discard pile at my feet shift in disgruntled, jealous protest?

Not only are the clothes in my closet reminders of my past but also they are part of recollections of places. The tiny corduroy flowered jacket was one I wore last winter. It was purchased in 1980 at my favorite Monterey thrift store, which I visited frequently when I lived in Salinas. I remember the day clearly. It was a perfect California coastal day of intermingled fog, sun, mists and breezes. My little corduroy jacket  is granted a reprieve. If it fits, wear it, I tell myself. 

On that same long-ago California day I found and purchased a glamourous full length maroon wool coat. I adore this coat, with its 60s style of puffy shoulders, high collar and many buttons. From 1984 to this day I cherish this coat, and the memories it evokes. Florida winters would never grant the wearing of this beauty. Yet, I can never discard it. Back on the rack it goes. Some memories of places outlive style and sizes.

Hidden on the top shelf are earlier years of my youth. Peasant blouses and long flowered voile skirts return from the green mountains of Vermont in the early 70s. Romping barefoot, raising dust dancing under the stars at huge pot and wine lubricated parties, these ensembles can never be discarded. I linger over my elegant wrap around pants I once wore to our art show openings. Maybe someday one of my grandchildren will go through a hippie stage and welcome such contributions to their wardrobe. I decide to leave these remnants of my past for others to decide their fate.

Bravely, I turn to shoes, those beautiful accouterments to my now-unwilling feet. When my feet were unhindered by age I spent more dollars on decorating my feet than on decorating our home. Tim always asked me, “What is it about women and shoes?” I tried to woman ‘splain: 

“It’s just the allure of glamour, it is glamour. Attainable glamour. Any woman can feel like a movie star with the right shoes.”  He wanders off, shaking his head with a lack of understanding.

My beautiful, glamorous shoe history has been short-lived. Genetically inherited bone defects, crooked toes, neuropathy pain, plantain fasciitis, heel bone spurs have resulted in my giving up these lovelies. My favorite was a pair was leather thigh high lace-up boots purchased in Amherst, Massachusetts in 1975. I wore them all over New England and California. Though I tried, today I can’t even fit my foot past the top of each boot. Reluctantly, I place them in the discard pile. 

My beloved husband is the wearer of nothing but Sketchers. Not me, I used to say. Now, I wear nothing but Ortho shoes, walking shoes, Skechers and occasionally expandable dressy shoes.  All are worn with orthopedic pads. I can’t bear to toss my dressy black suede heels into the Goodwill pile. They will be donated to a willing friend who still treats herself to pedicures and paints her toenails red, just as I used to do.

I am almost finished with my closet’s evictions. My discard pile has diminished with my wavering. There is so much I must keep.  How can I reject the dress I wore to my son’s wedding or the beautiful Asian top I wore to my own wedding? They remain cozily nestled next to all the other memories in my closet. Buried at the back of my closet I discover the witness to my hippie years. Images waft from the hangers, gardening in OshKosh overalls, sheer peasant blouses and sequined tops bear red-wine stained evidence of nights spent at raucous bars. A wisp of hay is all that remains of barn parties, tucked into my OshKosh pocket. These remnants of past years bring me to that ‘spot in time’ As Wordsworth would say. Moments from my past will remain and be saved for another day, another relative or friend.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll wear those black satin martini- drenched slacks to celebrate our 19th wedding anniversary? After all,  I’m still young in my mind. My closet agrees. The remaining clothes and I breathe a sigh of relief.  I gently shut the closet door and bundle up the rejects for Goodwill.

I can keep the memories. Someone else can enjoy my past-life wardrobe, making happy moments of their own, sharing my history from closet hangers.