Those Who Wore Fanny Packs Shouldn’t Throw Stones!

Those Who Wore Fanny Packs Shouldn’t Throw Stones!

Everyone knows by now that I have a liiiiiiiiitle bit of an obsessive compulsive streak and that it makes me clean a liiiiiiiiitle bit too much. But here’s something you probably don’t know: I’m an incorrigible pack rat. I just HATE getting rid of things. It kills me.

Okay, I’m kind of lying generalizing here. Let me stop lying re-phrase.

I have no problem whatsoever getting rid of MOST things. Those horrid Reeboks (yes, Reeboks) that my husband had since 1990? Goodbye. Obnoxiously loud toys that like to randomly go off in the middle of the night causing me to jump out of my skin for fear that I’m living that bedroom scene from Poltergeist? Hello, Goodwill! Clothes my kids outgrow? I’ve got just short of a billion nieces, nephews, and little cousins; there is no shortage of hand-me-down takers. But when it comes to getting rid of MY things (specifically my clothes, shoes, outerwear, and accessories), forget it; you might as well try to yank a tooth out of my head with a pair of pliers.

But now it has gotten out of control. I just have entirely too much shit with nowhere to put it all. I have a decent sized closet and yet, I’m still taking up space in my husband’s closet and in the kids room. Not to mention the endless number of shoes, belts, and cardigans that I have strewn around my office, because there is not one square inch of space left in my closet. Even I am past the point of being able to rationalize this. It now officially turned from an inconvenient mess of disorganization to the bane of my husband’s existence. My belt collection, so I’ve been told, is slowly killing him. Every single pair of jeans I own, especially the ones I never wear anymore (hello, cargo flares! I miss you!), are like sickle shaped blood cells stabbing him in the veins every time a pair falls out on top of him whenever he tries to find his sneakers.

So, I fully admitted that I have a problem. First step, check. Next, I decided to do something about it and tackle the closet(s). I knew it would be hard, but I seriously had no idea that it would be like going through prescription pill withdraw.

My problem isn’t that I hang onto things in hopes that I will wear it again. I don’t WANT to wear most of these things again (if anyone ever sees me in my baggy skater pants that I wore in ’95 again? SHOOT ME DEAD). The problem is that I’m weird and I hold a lot of nostalgia in my clothing. Like the shirt I was wearing when I got to talk to John Cusack about The Clash, and the ugly mary jane velcro strapped sneakers I had to buy on South Street Halloween night because the 6″ stilettos I wore as a part of my Rocky Horror costume (how original!) were killing me. So getting rid of these things are like getting rid of my memories.

Yes, I know how stupid it sounds. Shut up.

In the end, though, I did it. Well, I didn’t do as well as Ty had hoped, but I did make substantial progress. I have 4 garbage bags ready to be shipped off to Good Will and I can officially fit everything I own in my closet. I have gotten rid of things that I know will haunt me for a long time, like the size zero camouflaged bondage pants with the vinyl straps that I wore every single day when I was in the hospital for anorexia (yes, I realize that I said camo bondage pants, but did you realize that I said size zero? Excuse me while I go cry in my size sevens – and sometimes nines…..sob) and the pleather pants I wore the night I won $100 singing Total Eclipse Of The Heart at a karaoke contest. But, I’m happy to report that the John Cusack shirt is still in residence.

Ty: “You haven’t worn it the entire time I’ve known you, you’ll never wear it again.”
Me: “Yes, I know, but it probably has John Cusack spit on it somewhere. That means you’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

The belt made of bullets? Gone. The Meat Is Murder T Shirt that I haven’t worn since I decided that hemp pants were not the fashion of the future and, you know, started eating meat? History. Not one but FOUR babydoll dresses that I got in 1994 to look like Courtney Love but never did because I didn’t have track marks on my face and lipstick on my teeth? Will soon be hanging on a rack of a thrift store somewhere, probably next to a Members Only jacket.

I’m so proud of myself. But Ty has let me know that he is not declaring victory until these bags are sitting in a Good Will dumpster somewhere.

As for you, you’re not allowed to laugh at me and my fashion faux pas because everyone reading this entry at least owned a pair of Hammer Pants (or the equivalent of such a crime).