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Indiana Jones and that Bedouin shepherd who discovered the Dead Sea Scrolls have nothing on me. I recently led an archeological dig that rivals anything those dudes did.
I cleaned out my sweater closet.
Oh, it’s definitely not for the faint of heart. Colonoscopies are more fun. But by the end of my mission, I had three shelves of neatly folded items that would make professional organizers weep... not to mention a whole “new” wardrobe of my own clothes.
You see, for months (all right, years), I’d avoided dealing with the piles of stuff I’d stacked (OK, shoved) into the closet. It was much easier to wash and wear the same five tops than delve into the dark recesses to see what else was crammed in there.
I wore this quintet of monotony in rotation: Monday (black one), Tuesday (plum one), Wednesday (blue one), etc. It’s like I had sartorial autism. And, since I work from home, nobody except my family and the Fed Ex man knew about my Pathetic Dresser persona.
But what was my alternative? Excavating those piles to mine other shirts and sweaters? It would only create an avalanche of wool, cotton, and fleece, burying me for several hours while my family sicced our dog on my scent. “Hey, Dad! I think she’s over there! Yep, that’s her. Under those V-necks and Irish knit sweaters!”
Finally, I became tired of wearing the same clothes over and over again. After all, I wasn’t an extra in “Groundhog Day.” I wasn’t Dustin Hoffman in “Rain Man.” I was capable of tackling this.
So, in I dove. Out came an olive green poly/cotton blend with massive shoulder pads that reeked of 1987. A hoodie from college sporting frat-party salsa stains. A navy pullover that was apparently the entrée at a moth family’s Thanksgiving. A T-shirt I’d bought while visiting Washington, D.C., during the Reagan administration. A yellow cardigan that made me look like I’d had a torso transplant from Big Bird.
Several items flashed me back to the parade of bad dates I’d had before I met my husband. Oh, look! Here’s that lovely eggshell cashmere the 39-year-old guy who still lived with his parents spilled his merlot on. There’s the pumpkin-colored shell I wore when I had coffee with the dude so obsessed with "Lord of the Rings," I seriously considered escaping out the bathroom window of Starbucks. Or was it when that nerdy actuarial pronounced Milli Vanilli his all-time favorite band?
Purging the old, out-of-style tops was liberating. I uncovered some classic tanks I could still wear, and a few blouses I forgot I’d bought, including one with (you guessed it) the tags still on it.
So, what did I learn from my closet archeology project? Try it. You never know what clothing -- and memories -- you’ll dig up.
About the Author:
Jeannie MacDonald is a freelance writer, wife, and mother of one, who lives on the New Hampshire seacoast.
