A few months ago when I turned *COUGH* 40, I decided with great fanfare and no malice aforethought to clean out my closet. I figured I could sell some of the stuff I no longer wear to a resale shop for a Worthy Cause—
To help chip in to buy a plane ticket for Dr. Min Mehta. Dr. Mehta is the India born orthopedic surgeon who practiced in the U.K. and pioneered the unique method of casting for scoliosis that is saving my little boy.
So she is royalty.
Dr. Mehta is kind of like Ghandi, in my view, and some of the parents whose kids are being casted wanted to help buy her ticket so she could come to the U.S. this year and give hands-on training to doctors who are willing to learn this life saving practice.
So that’s enough seriousness, I’ll now proceed with the nonsense and the
Isn’t it funny when you try to do something charitable and just end up humiliating yourself?
I spent hours combing through my closet and it took me down a few fashion roads that I did not care to re-visit. Lord have mercy.
Still, I was purging, and a few things became vividly clear:
1.) I have a problem giving up things I once liked but no longer fit me. Things that have not fit me for over ten years.
2.) I still scratch and cling to the delusion that not only will these items one day fit my human body again, but that they will still be age appropriate.
These are painful truths and self delusion is some powerful Juju.
At least I did not find a dead cat skeleton at the bottom of a pile of refuse, like most of the people on the A&E’s “Hoarders” TV show. Or “Hoarding: Buried Alive” on TLC. Yes, there really is a show called “Hoarding: Buried Alive.”
My own dead cat, The Smoose, is currently residing on my mantle—
No, I did not engage in cat taxidermy, once Kitty passed on to the next realm, we had her cremated, and we do keep The Smoose’s ashes in a pretty little box on the mantle.
You think that’s weird? Wait ‘til you see my clothes!
Better, yet, I will show some photos of my late Kitty’s clothes—CAT COSTUMES! in a later post. You haven’t really lived until you’ve seen a cat in a Venetian Gondolier costume and hat.
So anyhoo, I hauled several large bags of treasures down to the fancy, chi chi resale store in Santa Monica, CA, was mistaken for a homeless person because I was dragging giant black garbage bags down the street, and waited patiently in line for an eternity in order to have the snobby young woman behind the desk purchase only 2 things from me:
2 pairs of used tall brown lace-up Minnetonka moccasin boots that they tagged to charge more than I paid for them, new, ten years ago. Apparently, they’re back in vogue.
The rest of my stuff? Well, she gave me a long look of pity and moved each item one by shameful one to the “NO” pile.
As she did, I harkened back to when I wore each item and I greedily wanted them all to keep hoarding.
-The faux snakeskin pants that are skin tight and I bought in NYC after I sold my first screenplay and had money for the first time in my life.
-The pink Tinkerbell T-shirt I wore to Vegas to see Kevin Spacey perform in a private rehearsal, singing Bobby Darin songs from his film “Beyond the Sea.” (Thanks, Dana : )
-The Paris Hilton “Too Hot For jail” joke t-shirt my husband bought me when my 1st movie was green lit—that I never wore, but kept…
-The iron-on decal SHAWN gray tank top that belonged to the guy I lost my virginity to.
-The red plaid schoolgirl skirt that has not fit me since I was about 21.
-The short sleeved gray sweater that has a picture of a cat wearing glasses and saying “Merde”- Sh*t in French.
Excuse my French.
I did go across the street to a second resale store, and they did buy my red shiny high heeled pumps that a certain actress wore to her Oscar nomination evening, and that I only wore about 3 times total, for sex.
With my husband, of course.
The soles were barely scuffed! A bargain at any price, *hee hee*
I did raise about 60 some dollars from these sales, so my good intentions paid off a bit. But I am persona non grata for the “Hoarders” professionals, as far as my ability to relinquish these sordid items of shame.
And don’t even get me started on my vault of trashy Halloween costumes, which are an even greater unexplained mystery of the Universe. Stephen Hawking is still trying to figure that one out.
Closure is elusive, but I will slog on with my delusions and my tacky clothes, bloodied but unbowed. Thanks for the memories and the tank top, Shawn. XOXO- Heidi : )