Skeletons From The Closet

Well, now.

Maybe you're reading, maybe you're not.  But somewhere in my addled grey matter, some little spark of conscience and accountability is alive and well and remembered that I'd mentioned the state of my closet and that someone else out there might remember and ask about it, or, horrors, ask to see it.  My lovely, lovely closet.

When I moved into this house, I'd intended each child to take an upstairs room and I'd have the one on the lower level.  But when I did the walk through of the property, I realized how large the upstairs rooms really were.  And then - THEN - I saw the closet in what is now my room.

It was so large (whilst still empty) that I could have put a Louise IV Fauteuil Chair in there that I might sit amongst my clothing and gaze upon my accessory wall.  I have an accessory wall!  But no such chair appeared, and it's just as well, because what did appear was a multitude of wonderfulness - jackets, dresses - wraps, sheaths, tanks, fit and flares, skater dresses -  cardis, tunics, skirts, boots, scarves, hats, shoes, sunglasses, turtlenecks, sweaters, oxfords, luggage - essentially, all the things I'd had packed away were allowed out.  And then, after a little harmless thrift store slash consignment shop indulgence,  I brought in new friends to keep them company.  Harmless, I tell you.

(Well, it was harmless at first, for that first winter I was here.)

Then came summer.

When you move house, you have to literally touch everything you own.  A lot of things were tossed out, per common sense and a ruthless (but wonderful) team of friends who, amongst themselves, decided I needed a clothing intervention.  I can't think why.

As temperatures climbed higher, I found I needed a new basic white tee.  And a black one.  And pink.  Turquoise, too, obviously.  Perhaps an A-line skirt.  A fold down yoga skirt. Capris. Summer whites.

And then, my lovely closet was full to bursting.  There was no space for the summer togs.

The two racks were jam packed with velvet hangers, dripping the dark, heathered, and jewel toned three-season clothes I'd already tucked away.  The shelf above was full of bags - totes, backpacks, hobos, buckets, clutches, shoppers, duffels, messengers, shoulder and beach bags, evening bags, sorted by color.

The over-the-door shoe holder (as if one of those puny things could hold all the shoes - do be serious -) was stuffed instead with scarves - jacquard, pashmina, silk, cotton,rayon, pleated, infinity, printed with swirls, paisleys, lush summer flowers, tiny rosebuds, stripes, hombre fades, swaths of luxe fabric shot through with metallic thread. Also sorted by color, for the record.

Under the smaller rack, a laundry basket stuffed with pillows, my grandmother's handmade quilt, extra blankets... a nordic-printed basket full of winter accoutrements:  Gloves (fleece, leather, knit, velvet), Scarves (yes, again - fleeces, knits,) and earmuffs.  That's right, earmuffs.

My lovely pink, plaid suitcases, a gift from The Man, were nested against a wall next to the stack of sweatshirts, hoodies and massive, chunky knit sweaters for those snowy days which beg for the feel of a ski lodge nestled in the alps.  Never mind that we live on a peninsula at the beach.

In the corner, a fabric storage bin atop white cubbies, filled with hosiery:  Sheer stockings, tights silky with opacity, fleecy lined tights, trouser socks.   In the cubby?  Summer shoes - canvas, rubber soled, flip flops, haraches, thong sandals, open toed shoes, espadrilles.  And beyond that -- the mother lode:  A large white storage cube with partitions forming sub-cubbies for my real shoes.  (The reader will note that my first  batch of real shoes - pre pregnancy- were ruined, as they were stored in a damp basement... patent leather flats, Joan and David suede pumps - I can't even think about it - and then the pregnancies, which meant that after all was said and done, I went up a foot size, irrevocably...and that was before the broken ankle, which meant tossing anything with much of a heel or wedge or that could even hint at any possibility the wearer could slip, trip, slide, crash, fall and otherwise wind up in a crumpled, twisty heap on the ground with more broken bones.  So this was Real Shoes, The Redux Part 2.)

No fair guessing - this is sorted by color too - dark to bright to neutral. Flats, mostly, some kitten heels, one or two chunky heels, a modest wedge; dark velvet, reds, beaded blues, hot pink, flowered, nudes, metallics - and boots.  Ankle boots, riding boots, boots with buckles, scrunched boots, a very racy pair of high heeled booties with buttons and one scandalous pair of animal print heels so high I can't actually wear them unless I'm sitting down.  On top of the shoe cubby, a bin full of hats (baseball hats, beach hats - straw, grosgrain, bucket), felt wool hats, and belts - beaded, braided, leather and rope.

It is a marvel, a kaleidoscopic array of lovely to look at, lovely to touch, clothing.

And it. Was. Full.

A secondhand, white wicker dresser was procured and pressed into service.  Neutral shirts, red family shirts, blue/green family shirts... skirts, capris, and everything else.  Lighter fabric folds up smaller and it all fit.

And there was much rejoicing.

This past March, I was afforded some time with The Man, which was, as ever, sublime.  However.  The separation?  The parting?  Facing untold weeks, months, with no date inked on the calendar when we could be together again?  Nothing to look ahead to? NO PLAN?  The horror...oh, the horror.  It is difficult to bring myself to grapple with the daily grind in view of an emotional wasteland like that.

Dark thoughts along these lines superseded thoughts of all else - yes, even the clothes I'd painstakingly shopped for, arranged and stored so meticulously.   It was easy at first; unpack the cases, toss the dirty laundry in a heap by the door, kick it down the stairs.  Everything else...eh.  Lay it out carefully on the chaise.   Oh. More?  Lay it, too, carefully on top of everything else on the chaise.  What?  The stack of lovingly piled clothing toppled?  Ah, what a metaphor.  Cue violins.  Kleenex, stat.  Exit stage left.

Did I mention that was in March?

It was June.  JUNE!  My lovely closet was decimated.  Hangers sat askew, garments angrily tossed in on the floor... and out, on the floor...and on the computer chair...and the chaise...and the bookshelf.   In short, the clothing was everywhere but on the velvet hangers I'd spent a Christmas gift card procuring.

I'm no neatnik, but I do like things in order.  Not that my mind is particularly calm nor organized, but I find it difficult to find peace in a room or a space when it is a shambles. I'd done myself no favours allowing the entropy to flourish.

The funny thing, and it isn't actually funny, is that I would survey my surroundings - the tumult of my own manufacture - and lose all impetus to move forward with Project Pick Up Your Things.  Instead, I would literally turn a blind eye, switch off the lights on that half of the room and lose myself in Law & Order or Say Yes To The Dress (because really, I needed to focus on excited, newly engaged women and more dresses).  And it overtook me.  And everything else.

Well last night was the breaking point and I wish I could tell you why, or what changed, or how the fire got lit under my Yes-To-The Dress-Saying behind, but it did get lit, and suddenly I was on my feet, flinging things into piles.  Dresser, closet, other dresser - did I leave out mention of the gorgeous shabby chic dresser a friend gave me? The seafoam green, faintly whitewashed dresser with antique handles and a sublime patina? That's where socks and pyjamas, T-shirts and yoga pants live. And unmentionables, which, obviously, I cannot, will not, mention.  Anyway - a pile by the door for laundry - fling, fling, fling!  Eventually, it was all flung and tucked away in the appropriate places.

In the end, I was exhausted but - but!  Order had been restored. I said yes to the dresses and the shoes and the scarves and the boots and the capris and the tees and the cardigans.  I said yes to my room, which, insofar as a room can speak, was begging me to put it right.  I said yes to resurrecting a peaceful environment, yes to transforming what had become my hidey hole into my retreat, my oasis.  And my closet.

I can't stop looking at it. I just open the door and gaze upon it.

The room isn't perfect.  It needs a vacuuming, some dusting, and some further decluttering but it's come a long way from where it was a week ago.  I wish I were  a long way from where I was a week ago too, but this is something, a good start.

I forgot how good writing can be for the soul; a creative, cathartic outlet which sort of, somehow or other, drew the skeletons out of my closet and motivated me to put the clothes back in it.