my clothes are mean to me

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my clothes are mean to me. i’m not sure why i invited them into my home. what possessed me to give cupboard space to such bullies and liar?

some are worse than others. my jeans? they’re pretty horrific. i avoid them quite often. i don’t need to interact with them to know what they’re going to say. they’ll tell me i’m fat and out of shape. they’ll tell me that no, my ass does not look good in them. they’ll point out that they cling to my thighs and that’s disgusting. they start in on me before i even try anything on. they make it clear right off the bat that this is going to be bad.

my yoga pants are a little less vicious. they’re still mean, but sneakier about it. they’ve got a kind of passive-aggressive thing going. they’re a fan of the word “almost” as in “these pants almost look good” and “you’ve almost lost enough weight” and “your thighs look less enormous in these today”.

the pretty clothes, the shiny sparkles, the cute blouses and darling skirts very seldom get the chance to speak to me directly. they’re the cool kids of the closet. like those kids in high school hung who hung out in trendy groups and who intimidated me so much that i avoided the hallways where they lingered. whatever it is that the cool clothes plan to tell me, i don’t want to hear it.

my t-shirts focus less on my bodily shortcomings and more on my overall sartorial failures. they remind me that i’m in a t-shirt and stretchy pants, again. if i’m out they point out how pretty much everyone looks better. they remind me that i look like a frump. that i obviously have no sense of style or fashion flair. that i look like a vagabond in my over-worn clothes and voluminous coats.

obviously, i have no conversations with accessories at all. i have lots of them. scarves drape tidily on the closet crossbar, necklaces hang from the walls on thumbtacks, and rings and bracelets fill decorative boxes. i deplore their wasted existence. i wish they had a better home, where they were taken out and played with. i love them, but i can’t work them. the critical voices of the tops and the bottoms are all i can currently handle.

i have one closet friend. my boots like me. they admire the fact that i have smallish feet and high-ish arches. they play well with others. the shoes that are stylish, the heels, the sling-backs, the pumps, have all been abandoned. they just couldn’t shut up about how bad i was at walking in them and how out of place the wearing of them was making me look.

perhaps 2018 will be the year of revolution. i’m committed to changing the relationships. i want to make friends with the contents of my closet. we liked each other well enough once, even if it was only for the duration of the trip home from the mall. i’m going to teach them to be nice. i’m going to remind them regularly that i’m trying, and that if they can’t say anything nice then perhaps they’d best not say anything at all.

january 4, 2018

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