Closet Attack

My clothes are being attacked, literally and figuratively.

The most basic problem is the bunny. I have a pet rabbit. He is fuzzy, adorable, and wonderful. I’ve already come to terms with the fact that his white fur means I have to travel with a pocket-sized lint brush. It’s cool. We adapt.

What is not cool is the fact that I came home the other night to find that one of my trench coats had slipped off the back of my desk chair, right next to the rabbit cage. AND THE RABBIT ATE IT. Not the whole thing, of course, but he pulled the sleeve into his cage and went to town on it, leaving the entire arm riddled with rodent holes. I was shocked, pissed, and devastated.

AND THEN IT HAPPENED AGAIN. The very next night, I kid you not, the little monster got his teeth on one of my favorite Theory blouses. It’s a gorgeous, heavy, draped material, and once again one arm was sprinkled with rabbit-teeth.

I am so very aware that it is my own damn fault for letting the clothes and the creature get too close to one another. This was the first time(s) it’s happened—it will not happen again.

But now I’m left with the very real problem of what the hell to do with these things. They were not cheap, old, or disposable. And though they’ve endured some trauma, they’re far from tattered. So what’s a girl to do?

Try to fix it of course! Which leads to the more figurative attack.

Upon discovering the destruction of the Theory, I hustled out of bed and down to the kitchen with my sewing kit, determined to patch together the (very tiny) holes. There were three, about the size of cigarette burns, on the inside sleeve, near the elbow. I sewed. I looked. I saw nothing. Unless you knew what to look for, and unless you were hell bent on noticing tiny imperfections in the way the sleeve fell, there was no way you’d notice. Or so I thought.

It was after a full day of work, of talking to people, flirting with my crush, chatting with my bosses, and feeling really good about how my ass looked in my recently revived cream-kakis that I made a small comment about how my rabbit was eating my wardrobe.

“Oh, is that what happened to that shirt?” asked a b—girl I work with. She did not say it nicely.

The office erupted. “Oooooh!”

I was shocked. Really? “Really?” So they had all seen, known, and though they kept their much more tactful mouths shut, everyone now thinks that I’m a poor, shabbily dressed beggar who has to wear rabbit- tattered clothes to work. I might as well quit now.

In trying to justify my actions (and outfit), I’ve come up with all sorts of equations for cost vs. damage, square inches of fabric damage vs. fabric untouched, and justifications for how my shirt might have a hole, but you’re wearing teal acrylic. Eew.

In the end, though, I guess holey clothes just won’t cut it. So I will.

I’m cutting off the sleeves of the shirt and making it short sleeved. Which, in essence means I got 2 shirts for the price of 1.

So I win after all.

Moving The Closet

I’ve recently moved into the city from the suburbs, and it’s taking some getting used to.

I’ve moved my home base, my comfort zone, my routines, my commute, and my panic mechanisms to a totally unfamiliar location. It is exactly where I want to be? 100000%. It is freaking me the hell out? Even more so.

The most obvious thing I’ve had to do is pack my closet, which was less of a monumental feat than you might think for two reasons. First, I don’t pack. I pick things up in the neatly folded piles they are already in, or grab a stack of hangers from the closet, put them in the car, and then put them back exactly where they were, except in their new location. I’m not lazy, I’m organized.

The second reason moving was a breeze was because I was moving from The World’s Smallest Closet (think coffin sized) to The Worlds Largest. Well not quite that, but at least a big one. Four doors. Huge top shelves. This was the thing that sold me on the apartment for good.

Yet in spite of my transitional traditions and change-nothing attitude, some things have managed to get lost in the shuffle. The least among them is this really beautiful cream-colored satin blouse that I cannot find even there is absolutely nowhere left to look (and trust me, I have looked).

The greatest loss is my sense of style.

I understand myself well enough to know that for me, getting dressed is a daily way of expressing creativity. It’s also something I usually do very well. But since moving, I have lost all sense of rhythm and balance when it comes to my wardrobe.

I imagine this is because I feel out of place, out of my comfort zone, and uncomfortable in my environment (even though I love it!) I also know that this fashion-fail-fest has got to stop. I have a reputation to maintain, and showing up to work in black slacks, a blazer, and the too-tight shirt I bought in 2005 for my first ever internship is not the way to do it.

This is also freaking me out because usually my closet is the way I maintain control. It’s one of my major mantras: When life takes a crap on you, you still have to Get Dressed. And by doing at least that well, you’re giving yourself a head start on your day. In theory.

Yet here I am, unable to get a grip on a single sweater combination that doesn’t leave me looking like I just escaped from the asylum.

As things settle down, I have every expectation that my head will straighten out, and as it does, so will my hemlines. Plus, spring is on the way, and with it, a whole closets worth of pastels and pleats I’ve squirreled away through the winter.

Of course, that means that I have to move them all again……