This month I had the mother of all wardrobe clean-outs. It was a
mother-chucker. Not that it’s unusual for me to cull my clothes. I’m
quite addicted to re-organising my wardrobe and I do it often. For me,
it’s like a form of fashion meditation. Superficial? Admittedly, yes.
But it works. There is chanting (“I must stop buying bootleg jeans I
must stop buying bootleg jeans”), nirvana (“I forgot I owned this
Morrissey tux! Wheeeee!”) and inner peace (“ahhhhh, more hanging
space”).
In my life, many different things can prompt a wardrobe edit. Change of
temperature. Change of fashion. Change of job. Change of house. Change
of body shape. But the time I’m most likely to take a style broom to my
closet is when I’m messy in the head. Stressed. Anxious. Grumpy.
Somehow the process of stocktaking my clothes and sorting them into
piles (keep/wash/dry-clean /sell/give away/store/was I on drugs when I
bought this?) brings me mental clarity. Hey, my life might be in
turmoil but at least my white t-shirts are all folded into a pile and
separated from my printed ones, OK?
So why was this particular purge so much more effective and cathartic
than previous chucks? Because I made a significant mental
breakthrough. Somehow I finally managed to clear the mental hurdle
called: I-Can’t-Possibly-Get-Rid-Of-This-Because-It-Is-A-Posh-Label.
There are two parts to this misguided philosophy. The first goes “it
must have been expensive so I must keep it”. The second goes “designer
label means good quality so I must keep it.” Foolishly, these two ideas
tend to triumph over common sense and the power of sight. That’s why
even though something may not suit me or fit me or flatter me, that
little posh label will win out and score said item a reprieve every
time. Until now.