Wardrobe Wars

I’d just like to make a quick apology for yet another blog post on a Sunday, instead of a Saturday…what are your thoughts on me just making sure that I write one at some point over the weekend each week?  It would take some of the pressure off, and who knows, without the pressure I might stop looking at it like I used to look at essays, thinking ‘Oh sod it, I’ll write it later’.  (Obviously I’m joking – I was never allowed to write essays on shopping.)

Anyhoo, the reason for this post being late is because I was clearing out my wardrobe.  It was much more labour intensive than I first thought, and ended up being a 2 day job, instead of the hour task that I originally intended (we lost a lot of men, they were ready for us, etc., etc…), but on the plus side, whichever charity shop I decide to grace with my presence will now have at least 3 months worth of stock.

For several months now, my Darling Sister and my Lovely Mum have been telling me that I don’t need to buy new clothes, that I have lots of nice things, and if I cleared out my wardrobe, it would be like wandering round the shops, but from the comfort of my own home.  I generally snorted, and told them that online shopping was invented for that very reason.  I used to feel as though they were picking on me, and just being a bit mean.  Besides, I have the smallest room in the house, if I have more than 4 items in it at any one time, it looks crowded.  (It amazes me to think how many justifications I actually came up with.)  I’ve discovered a ridiculous amount of clothing still in the original packaging, some of it actually quite pretty, and my room looks pretty tidy.  And almost spacious.  For a coffin.  So, Lovely Mum, and Darling Sister, I’m sorry – you were right, and I was very wrong (just don’t expect me to say it to your faces….)

Darling Sister came in from work yesterday (she’s cabin crew.  She hates it when I call her a Trolley Dolly, so I stopped doing it.  To her face.), not long after I’d managed to pull everything out from the bottom of the wardrobe, and chuck it on the floor/bed/desk.   After skating over carrier bags, shoe boxes and dvd cases (some even with DVDs in them), she cleared herself a space on the bed (it’s lucky that she’s teeny), and proceeded to watch me sort through the stuff.

Now, Marian Keyes is my favourite author (I promise that this does link to the story, and isn’t just one of my strange tangeants) – I love her, and wish that I could climb inside her head and work out how she manages to write so ruddy well (but not in a weird way).  I met her once, and it was pretty much one of the only times I couldn’t think of anything to say.  My friends were thrilled.  I don’t want to give away one of her storylines, but in one of her books, there’s a scene where one character discovers something about a relative.  She goes through the relative’s belongings, revelations throwing themselves at her with gay abandon as she finds more and more evidence of addiction.  What I did yesterday gave me some insight into how the relative must have felt (maybe I should re-read the book, with my new-found insights?), and I really, really didn’t like it.  It was not comfortable, nor was it pleasant.  I’d always assumed that people were messing about when they told me that I shop too much, or that I have a ridiculous attitude to money saving and the like.  However, after discovering 3 brand new pairs of shoes (including a very nice pair of Airwalk trainers that I don’t even remember buying), 3 bags still in their original packaging, and (literally) countless tops, pairs of jeans, and lovely dresses, it’s come to my attention rather forcefully, that they might have been right.  Darling Sister sat with eyes wider than a very wide thing, as I pulled out yet another tag laden guilty purchase. (I even found a book that I already have on my bookshelf.  I clearly remember buying the one on my bookshelf as I thought that I’d lost the one in the wardrobe.  Luckily, Darling Sister doesn’t know about that yet…)  I was absolutely mortified.  I know that people say that a lot (especially me, I’ve been known to be overdramatic on more than 5 occasions), but I genuinely wanted the ground to open and for me to slide right on in.  I was so ashamed of myself, and I dearly wanted Darling Sister to sod off.  She didn’t, so I had to see it through.  It does seem to have dimmed my urge to whinge about not shopping.  For now.  I have no doubt that normal service will be resumed early tomorrow morning.  I’m not likening my ridiculously frivolous situation to the awful reality of alcoholism, but I think that I now have a small, tiny idea of what it must be like when someone realises the extent of their drinking.  It’s horrendous.

Another author, Sophie Kinsella, writes the incredibly successful ‘Shopaholic’ series of books – if you haven’t read them, the main character is called Becky Bloomwood, and she annoys the bejesus out of me.  She has no control over her spending, and when there’s a choice between the rent and a designer bag, I’m almost certain that she’d take the bag.  She shops for useless crap that the reader knows she’ll never use, and continually makes excuses to her family and friends about her spending.  And you know how some amateur psychologists say that if you instantly dislike someone, it probably means that you see things in them that you don’t like about yourself?  I’m now concerned that I AM Becky Bloomwood.  Although she has a job as a journalist.  So she’s actually cooler than me.  You have no idea how much this irritates me.

But that is IT now – I’m already going cold turkey, so hopefully I will have kicked the habit by the time that June rolls around.  My chums that I used to go shopping with, please don’t think that I no longer care for you if I don’t contact you once I can enter New Look again, instead of walking past and whimpering, but all counsellors advise cutting yourself off from the friends that you had during your addiction, and I’m not sure if you’re enablers.  It’s nothing against you, you’re lovely, it’s not you, it’s me…if you prefer, you may insert your own excuse.  I will always think of you, and the skirts we shared, with affection.

On another note, I decided to send The Boy a phot0 of my room yesterday, just after the emptying of the wardrobe.  I could imagine his face draining of colour, as he wondered exactly where the Hell we were going to put all of my stuff when we move in together (he needn’t worry – a lot of it went  into the ‘Charity Shop’ pile.  Plus, we’re not moving in together unless the house has a walk-in wardrobe, and there would be plenty of room for all my stuff in one of those).  He replied to my message, telling me it looked pretty.  It’s nice that he still fibs to me occasionally (although I’m now starting to worry about what he really thinks of my new hairstyle…and, indeed, my new hair colour.)


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