So, while I was struggling to wedge my foot into a stiff new pair of pumps the other morning, my father's voice intruded...
Use. Your. Shoehorn!
.... oh Dad, come on! I don't know where it is! Besides, I'm not a little kid anymore.
To be perfectly honest, I've never really subscribed to those who claim to communicate with those who've gone before. (Perhaps I'm envious?)
All the same, I can sure identify with Chris Young's song lyrics:
You could say I'm a little bit crazy
You could call me insane
Walkin' 'round with all these whispers
Runnin' 'round here in my brain
I just can't help but hear 'em
Man, I can't avoid it
My wardrobe could hardly be described as expansive ... but purge I must!
Some decisions are easy-peasy. That pantsuit which left me feeling like a giant cantaloupe, or the way in which those too-small jeans giggled and mocked.
Then, there are the difficult goodbyes. A new (to me) ensemble which caught my mother's practiced eye years ago. In a rare moment of clarity, she'd smiled, "That looks so well on you!" It was also the outfit I happened to be wearing that last morning. This may sound silly, but I finally had to carry it to the trash ... every time I spotted it hanging there, I'd hear her voice. (And it's really hard getting ready for work when your eyes won't stop leaking.)
Of course, there are a few pieces with which I'll never part.
There's a red cocktail dress that hangs in the far recesses, but its presence always makes me smile: That summer of '83, when -- for the first/last time in my life -- I felt almost pretty. And I hear a special dark-eyed man whisper, "Cara mia."
Sometimes I try to ignore 'em
But I thank God for 'em
'Cause they made me who I am
Perhaps you have a seemingly-ordinary article of clothing with a host of memories attached?
.... I'm curious: Do you relegate your "chatty" pieces to storage ... a sort of purgatory?
Or, are you braver than me, and rip that bandage off, quick-like?