Last night I was the victim of one of the most classic time-wasters in human history: the wardrobe crisis. I spent an hour- a full hour- trying on every combination of clothes in my closet, in my sister’s closet, in the laundry hamper, and even in the give-away-but-aren’t-gone-yet pile. What makes this even more shame inducing is that at the end of it all I left the house in the outfit I had planned on wearing to begin with- the very first one I had on.
While the back-story here explains my excessive neurosis a little bit- I was going to see a old, impressive friend whom I haven’t seen in many years- the cyclical process of what happened in that tortuous hour remains something of a mystery.
What, after all, did I expect to find as I stared into the narrow closet frame? Did I think a top I had somehow forgotten about was going to simply fall from above onto a hanger in front of me? (Actually I did think that, but after a thorough investigation of both the top shelves and floor, I had no such luck).
Did I think there was going to be an outfit combination that my already maxed-out mixing and matching strategies hadn’t come up with? (Well, I tried that too. Let’s just say that layering two stand-alone pieces does not a new dress make).
I even ‘gave up’ twice, ‘throwing on’ expensive jeans, heals and a t-shirt. Alas, it seems I have reached an age where ‘effortlessly cool’ might in fact require some paradoxical effort.
When all is said and done, I think it is a bit of a shame that I was forced to retreat to the original outfit, a perfectly acceptable one, but not one I was excited about or empowered by. As a person who leans on their closet for emotional support, this was a bit of a let down.
Even worse, though, was the fact that all of this anal assessment made me an hour late to a party with amazing people who without question didn’t spend half the time I did thinking about their outfits, or thinking about mine.
Perhaps, if I had suddenly suffered a stroke of genius and a brand new excellent ensemble had come to mind this would be a different essay. As that is not the case, I am left with a mantra I will be repeating to myself the next time insecurity strikes: trust your instincts and get out the door. The reason you care about what you wear is so that you can feel good while you live your life, but living life should be the priority.
The worst kind of fashion victim is she who is debilitated by it. Remember: the closet is not a crutch.
