Closet Cleaning: What’s Out and What’s In

I’ve finally accomplished something. It’s a task I despised as a teenager, but I’ve overcome the trauma and done it. I’ve cleaned my closet.

It was a giant heap, a mess. Lots of clothes everywhere, unarranged, unorganised, a nightmare for anyone with OCD. I forced shut the closet, even locked it, so that the heap does not tumble out. But then I had to unlock it because I had to extract something out of it, to enhance my appearance in the world outside my house.

On one such occasion, the heap of clothes started tumbling out. One after the other; old clothes, new clothes, forgotten clothes lay on the floor of my bedroom. I did try controlling the avalanche but I was pushed back and made to witness this disaster.

Thus started the arduous task of folding, arranging and cleaning my closet.

I found the t-shirt which I thought made me look good. Purple, enhanced the right bits, covered the not-so right-ones, in short a safe bet for a sexy day. But somehow the magic had faded. It didn’t do the same thing. Last time I wore it I looked exactly as fat as I am in real and that’s not nice. No point keeping it in the best bet stack, so I chucked it out.

A blue tank top, with a hole, followed the purple t-shirt, and that one was followed by a shirt with a massive tea stain. They should have gone long ago, and they are now. All of them live together in the discard stack.

Then there was this red top. I remember shopping for it. Love at first sight, I wasn’t sure if it would look good on me, but I had to buy it. Watching someone else wear it would have killed me. So I bought it. I did wear it a couple of times, but it never seemed to match anything. It was too red and honestly, now it looked fairly ordinary. Confession: a bad buy. I kept it in the standby stack and if I don’t wear it successfully soon, it will join the fellows in the discard stack.

Discarding led to re-discoveries. A long-lost and one-time favourite balloon top, a halter which I’d picked up after promising myself that I’d lose weight to fit into it, a cotton dress I’d picked up in Goa, a pair of shorts from Goa again and the list can go on forever.

I lost every plausible excuse to shop again. Regretted shopping for all those clothes that were lying in the discarded heap. In a small corner of my small brain my mother’s voice reprimanded me for not arranging my wardrobe regularly.

I put all that regret aside and looked at what was left of the heap of clothes. The lost lot, and my favourite lot. Home clothes a.k.a prized possessions.

Striped boxers held together by stretched elastic, the out-shape t-shirt from college, which used to be dark green but is now some unidentified shade of green, the black one with crazy lines and a tattered hostel laundry tag, a pair of shorts I’d stolen from my brother, very big and very comfortable. I can go on and on and on.

These clothes get a special shelf in the cupboard. They personify comfort. Slipping into the pair of now-ill-fitting jeans from college days cures the gloomiest of days.

They have memories. They are as good as skin. No matter how fast my sizes change, these always fit. They are reassurance. In fact some of them have changed sizes according to me.

I’ve hidden them from my mother, lied about their existence so that she does not throw them away. I’m a bit too attached to my special old clothes. They are my constants in this ever changing, fast moving life.  When I wear them, the whole universe gets together and says, “Everything will be okay.”

So that’s it, my closet is neat and full of clothes that retain the quality for which they had been picked. They make me look good and feel happy.