Some years ago, I complimented my young co-worker, M, on
her wardrobe. Every day, she was perfectly dressed, head to toe, and I always
marveled at the consistent and appropriate fashion sense in one so new to the workforce. She
shared with me later that she called her mother and said, "Mom, this woman from work, who
I always thought was so nice, told me I'm a 'clothes whore' today." Her
mother said, "M, do you think she meant 'clothes horse'?"
Well, I'm starting to think M was right the first time she quoted
me. Having recruited a friend to help me pare down my closet recently, and in
turn, having just helped another friend do the same thing to hers, there is
some deep promiscuity inherent in the way we cannot be faithful to the clothes
that suit us best. (I didn't mean to be punny, but hey... if the shoe fits, buy it in
every color and heel height.)
I know what looks best on me. I KNOW. But I can't help buying
things that are my fantasy wardrobe. (Ah, now I get it, guys! If you could put
any group of players together, even though you know it's not humanly possible,
that would be your dream. And if I could wear half of the clothes in my closet,
even though I know it's not humanly possible, that would be MY dream.)
So every couple of years, I have to do a purge and get rid of the
things that I bought for the taller, trendier, riskier Anita. I sure like
her clothes better than mine. But they've got to go, because she's taking up
most of the space in our closet, that clothes whore.
© 2014 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie
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