Monkeypants wrote a post about her Fall Closet Purge and it inspired me.
After Trombone was born, I dragged out all my pre-pregnancy clothes and found them to be lacking in the areas of FIT and COVERAGE so I bought some new ones. I didn’t need very many. I wasn’t doing much, most days. The pre-pregnancy clothes and maternity clothes went to the back of the closet, along with the Christmas decorations and a box of very pretty shoes that no longer fit because my feet had spread during pregnancy.
I went back to work last year so I got new clothes. I got pregnant again and because I was a size up, only some of the old stuff fit so I got new clothes. After Fresco was born, my post-1st-pregnancy clothes didn’t fit, so I got new clothes. On Saturday last I went into my (giant, walk-in, bedroom) closet looking for my address book and I didn’t come out for TWO HOURS.
And I didn’t find the address book.
After one pregnancy, yes, there was a chance that I would wear those pre-pregnancy pants again but after TWO hip-widening, foot-spreading, waist-expanding bouncing baby boyos, no ma’am there is no longer a chance. I do not have the time or inclination to exercise 5 hours a day. Goodbye all you pants. Goodbye optimistic, bought-without-trying-on-and-lost-the-receipt pants. Goodbye sinusitis pants (I dropped a pant size the year I had the bad sinus infection and I do not wish to encourage further sinus infections by keeping them around.) Goodbye babydoll t-shirt. Goodbye 12 other babydoll t-shirts. So long adorable dress that now wouldn’t even pass for a t-shirt. **
I am stunned and slightly embarrassed by how much clothing I have stashed away over the years. I feel like I should be 12-stepping my way out of this but I am not addicted to either clothing or shopping.
Short version: Back to back pregnancies, meaning long and short-term memory totally FUBAR’d plus hearty farm stock heritage whose hips don’t lie plus walk-in closet plus steady employment allowing for disposable income equals disaster.
** You will pry my pretty shoes from my cold, dead hands. Someday my feet will shrink back to a size 10 and then I will be the 85-year-old belle of my retirement community’s semi-annual ball. Mark my words. (cane shake)