I was standing in my closet this morning searching for something to wear that would both fit me (not always easy when I have two decades of outfits hanging in the closet) and look halfway decent (not always easy when I have two decades of outfits hanging in the closet).  I was aiming for a look that stood somewhere between Bum Off of the Street and Job Applicant.  I had already consulted the weather guru’s of the Metroplex–Channel 4 and 5’s weathermen– and they insisted it was going to be in the low 50’s.  Two days ago it was in the 80’s.  Today, the 50’s.  Tomorrow?  Locusts and plague. 

Standing there in the midst of too many clothes, I came to a sad decision. 

I have to break up with my old wardrobe.

The relationship just isn’t working for me anymore.  I have jeans that really I should have kicked to the curb ages ago.  They are from my pre-mommy days.  After 4 pregnancies, I don’t care what I do to get into shape and stay that way, things shift and move around after 4 pregnancies.  Those jeans can lead to nothing but hurt feelings and longing for the body of my past.  Toxic jeans.  That’s what they are.  They must go.

In fact, I have jeans in every size from pre-mommy to maternity.  For the love of all things denim, I know I will neither fit into the pre-Mommy jeans and don’t ever want to have to wear the maternity jeans again, so those bookends to my jeans collection have got to go.  In between? Every size possible, I believe.  It is like the refugees from a Gap Store closing have taking up residence in my closet.  (Ironically enough, I am currently in between sizes anyway, so none of them fit perfectly.) But seriously, who needs jeans that are in 5 different sizes?  That really can’t be healthy.  Like I said, toxic jeans.  The ones that are too small make me want to cry.  The fat jeans are just an excuse to continue an illicit affair with Ben & Jerry so that I can wear them again.  Toxic jeans, I tell you!

Hanging near my toxic jeans is a sweatshirt I wore in high school.  In HIGH SCHOOL, people.  I graduated in 1988.  Do the math.  Do you think that sweatshirt is still in style?  Stop laughing.  It was just a question.  Okay.  It gets tossed into the Breaking Up With You pile.

I am proud to say that I do not have anything Laura Ashely circa 1980’s, though, thankyouverymuch.  However, I do have a few Izod shirts.  Shut up.  You wore them too.  Even if yours are not in your closet, you wore them!  (If you didn’t…you wanted to.)

Over there….in that dark little corner hangs my Dallas Stars sweatshirt, Stanley Cup Winners t-shirt and my Western Conference Champs (complete with a full roster on the back).  I am not speaking to them after the NHL broke my heart this year. They can stay back there with the skeletons.

I am both shocked and appalled by the condition of my wardrobe.  What’s left?  T-shirts.  Warm-up pants.  Jeans (3 pairs) that almost fit but are not The Fit that all women crave to find in her favorite pair of jeans.

Dresses?  What the hell for?  Like I am going to wear those to the park?  To McDonald’s? Target?  Not so much.

Dress pants?  Yeah right.  To get playdough on them?  To impress the barista at Starbucks?  I don’t think so.

And you can forget about anything cashmere or silk.  I am not so sick as to ruin such clothes with playdates and housecleaning.

So, I am breaking up with my old wardrobe.  And pathetically enough…I am left with …Oh for the love of aging, I can’t say it….I am left with…

…My MOM’s old wardrobe.

Hold me.

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