I'm Finally Out of the Closet

Sorry, boys. If you thought this would be a girl meets girl at the Greenville love story, I'm terribly sorry to disappoint. But, next time I see you, I'd be happy to tell you about the time I was hit on by "Butch" at Arriba Arriba! on the upper East side during 2 for 1 margarita night.

This is about what we hang up and hang on to, but should really hang out to dry...forever.

A yellow postcard arrived in the mail the other day. You know what that means. Easter Seals/AmVets/Purple Hearts/The British/Whoever are coming! Time to take everything out of my closet, toss it in a huge garbage bag, cry to Mike about how I never have anything to wear except wife beaters and Gap Outlet capris and then go shopping. It's a vicious cycle and I love it like Snapple.

My keep-toss method was simple. I asked myself these three questions.

1. Would Joelle (one of my most fashion-forward friends) wear it?
   (After realizing how ridiculous this criteria was. I skipped directly to #2.)
2. Should a woman my age still wear it? (If so, then #3.)
   
3. If the Doobies were in highschool and I wore this, would they make me drop them off a mile from school? (D'OH!)
   

Armed with my preserve or pitch strategy, I dove into the closet and started hurling. Pants. Shirts. Shoes. Deconstructed outfits were flying at warp speed from the walk-in.

"What are you doing, Mommy? OWWWWWW!"

Oops. Kaila had become a casualty of the sisterhood of flying pants.

"SORRY! I'm donating clothes. Be careful!"

[Rubbing her forehead where the airborne apparel hit.] "Can I help?"

"SURE!" [Gotta start 'em off young.]

"WHAT is all that?" [Madan walked in.]

"These are all the suits I used to wear when I worked in NYC. I was a high-powered executive on Madison Avenue. Can you believe that?"

"No."

To be honest, I couldn't believe it either. I was wearing Target PJs and furry slippers. My mullet was six feet high since I hadn't showered yet.

Undeterred, I started ripping my 1990s suits off hangers. First victim, a dark green Jones NY suit that I wore with matching green pumps. Oooh la la! Back then, I wore my hair up in a French twist a la Ivana Trump. Oh, how friggin' chic! And, if that wasn't bad enough, the blazer had shoulder pads. Why? Someone back then had a wicked sense of humor.

Next, I moved to the back of the closet. That's where it got weird. I stumbled on an old Halloween costume. When Mike went to Duke, I bought a Catwoman outfit about three sizes too big. (My bad for waiting until the last-minute. There's nothing sexier than a woman in baggy latex.) Note to self: Store in box labeled "HALLOWEEN COSTUME." That way, when the kids found it years later, they wouldn't tell everyone that their mama was an S&M junky.

An hour later, I came out of the closet. It was clean. I could see everything I owned. And, everything I never should have bought was safely stowed in garbage bags for donation. I removed Kaila's helmet. I finished showering, looked in my closet and sighed.

I had nothing to wear.