As Gap is my witness, I have too many clothes. I have a 26-year-old pair of jeans because damn it, they still fit. I have a 1980s sweater with shoulder reinforcements that would protect me from artillery fire. I hold onto silly socks because they were gifts, business suits because I need them once per decade, 52 T-shirts commemorating vacation locations, 54 pairs of shoes, 39 pairs of stockings, 12 bathing suits, and hand-me-overs from family, friends, and enemies (they are now).
Weirdly, I'm not a clotheshorse, or even a clothes gerbil. I wear maybe 20% of what I own. Most of the items I can't stand, fit into, match with other stuff, justify at my age, or even find. Some are coming apart at what used to be seams, until both age and unseen voracious boll weevil hybrids decimated them. Others reflect styles that were in fashion for ten minutes, and only in some remote Icelandic village. This here was an impossibly good deal. That there I wore the first time I ever
Yet I can't let go. I feel like an audience member of "Let's Make a Deal." It's like I think someone will show up offering me $5,000 for a 14-year-old pair of stretch pants patterned with palm trees. Got it right here! I can also provide a few low-cut blouses that would warrant arrest in the Red states. You should also look no further than my closet for a bridesmaid's dress that made me look like the Big Bad Wolf vomited on Little Bo Peep, cargo pants so big on me that I become the hidden cargo, and a white skirt whose stains I actually tried to cover with Wite-Out. How can you not keep such a testament to your own resourcefulness?
Clearly, I have vestiary conundrums because my advanced soul was born into this primitive era, an age when to conduct life as we know it, our spirits must still remain trapped in a physical, vulnerable form. Therefore we must depend on clothes to protect us from cold, discomfort, and abject ridicule. Please consider that my bloated wardrobe is an ironic manifestation of my subconscious rebellion against my corporeal limitations, whereby I keep a freakish surplus of clothing in order to suppress my burgeoning ethereal nature, which would never be truly accepted by the material civilization into which I have been cruelly and irreversibly thrust.
Yeah, I think I'll go with that. Otherwise I'd have to admit that I'm just a pathetic pack-rat, wearing palm tree-patterned stretch pants while awaiting the second coming of Monty Hall and regularly abusing Wite-Out.