Do these pants make my closet look fat?
If there is one thing that drives me crazy, it is limitation. Next to that is chaos within limitation. So basically this…the most restricted organized mess in the history of closets. The minimal-square-foot bane of my existence. Sometimes…late at night…I hear hangers weeping.
I am pretty sure if my closet could talk, it would say that it’s full and can’t eat anymore. Too many shoes and jackets. Burps taste like leather, it has acid wash reflux and this fashion food baby it’s got going on is making it feel bloated. One more button and it will upchuck every last plaid shirt that was force-fed down its throat.
I have recently come to realize I have an alarming affinity for plaid button-ups. I have never lived on a ranch or chopped wood in my life, yet I am one plaid shirt away from going the humane society and asking if they have a blue ox…preferably named Babe.
It’s not that my closet has an irrational, couch-potato like diet, as opposed to my dad’s belief that a new pair of shoes lands on my doorstep daily like a cheesecake from Mama’s Little Bakery. It actually has a really sensitive, stupidly small stomach.
I am not an impulse buyer and don’t just buy to have. I tend to buy pieces with longevity. So when few things are getting digested and disposed of, the belly of the beast (which is more badger, less whale) tends to bulge. I’m sure it would love to just get up and go run off a little of that muffin top, but I don’t even have room for a pair of running shoes. (Apparently only shoes to do the running man, as the obnoxious Reeboks in the bottom left corner would suggest.)
Besides, running sucks.
So contrary to how it may seem, I have a very detailed screening process when I’m shopping and often go home with nothing because it always seems to boil down to the question: What am I willing to get rid of in order to make room for this?
Partially due to the the space issue, partially not, my closet has always been particularly squeamish about other people’s leftovers. Never really had an appetite for it and always found them hard to chew. I’m thinking mostly because somebody else’s teeth marks were already on them. However, if someone were to be getting rid of some Choos or a Muubaa Green Motorcycle Jacket at Free People, that’s some a.b.c. Bubblicious worth re-chewing, whether there’s flavor left or not. Fact of the matter is, errrbody got room for bubblegum…even if it does accidentally get swallowed…and even if it is full of someone else’s spit.
There is only one solution. A closet transplant. One that is more Vegas style buffet line, less congested-school-lunch-line-slop-mixture. Where shoes don’t have to sit on floors like crumbs and it doesn’t take the force of a linebacker to push aside the coleslaw to make room for some meatloaf…or space to hang a shirt…whatever.
This metaphor = been spent.
I need a bigger closet.