Last week I had a reckoning. My reckoning was with my closet. I took stock and dealt with my reality; the fact that I cannot wear more than half of my clothes. One reason is because they don’t fit. I prefer to reframe this, particularly when it comes to my jeans, to the realization that my “comfort tolerance” has changed. Today, I look at those tiny, absurdly expensive jeans I used to shimmy onto my body. If I’m honest, they felt like a death grip on my mid-section. This morning, I tried on my friend’s jeans, three sizes bigger, and a world of breath opened up.
Other items that stand out due to the pandemic include: those fabulous three-inch-heeled, knee-high zebra print boots, and that fringed silk tank top, slightly see-through and absolutely fantastic. Each time I went into my closet, I felt a feeling. Not a good feeling. It was more like a pit. A sadness. A longing. I missed hanging out with my old threaded friends—the black spandex shirt that only has one sleeve so I can showcase my shoulder tattoo; the silver glitter heels that look amazing with my black leather pants or the floor-length kimono that I wear with previously-fitting skinny jeans (the ones with the rhinestones on the pockets). I love clothes. I love dressing up, and before this pandemic I always had somewhere to go. I was busy morning to night, going to my office, boss of my multi-site counseling center, or to see my handful of private psychotherapy patients.
