Finally, finally, it looks like we’ll be moving in the next 2-3 weeks. It has been a long road, my friends, and there were many times when I pretty much gave up hope but fingers crossed it looks like it will happen. Soon.
I’ve probably just totally jinxed myself saying that.
You know what this means, don’t you? The dreaded packing. It’s not too bad because we’re moving from a flat to a house so we’ll have more room and in theory that means we could just take everything without sorting it out but that was never going to happen was it? I have recycled so many magazines in these last few weeks I could have probably saved us all the pain of The Great Loo Roll Shortage of 2020 if I’d started when we accepted the offer back in March.
About 6 years ago I started boring my friends with the idea of doing a death cleanse on my wardrobe and curating a perfect capsule wardrobe in its place. Well the time has come. I have a lot of clothes, I started packing them for the move last weekend and I put some things to one side to donate to charity but packed away quite a lot of my clothes leaving myself just what is in the laundry and complete outfits for seven days. I warn you, it looks pretty brutal.
Now I’m not claiming this is my forever capsule wardrobe. Let’s not forget the full laundry bin and the ever present ironing pile but this feels pretty good. Today I’ve taken two giant bags of clothes to a donation point and I feel so…. light.
I hit that wardrobe with two ideas in my head. I picked every single item one by one and if it failed both of these questions it was doomed.
1. Does it fit?
2. Do I feel good wearing it?
Now on the face of it this seems pretty simple but for me clothes are loaded with guilt and self-loathing. I very rarely try clothes on in shops because I don’t like to look at my reflection, loaded on top of that I am the worst returner ever. I try things on at home and if they don’t fit or look foul I somehow convince myself that the day will soon come when all that changes. That day does not come.
The problem I then have is those clothes then sit there in my wardrobe for an age and every time I look at them they remind me that I am a good two sizes bigger than I’d like to be and that as yet my breasts have failed to shrink to darling little b-cups.
I’m left with two bags of clothes that I’m not going to wear ahead of the move. The stuff in the laundry and the ironing pile is going to get the same treatment and when I start to flag or waver I imagine I’ve died and Carrie Bradshaw has been sent to sort through my effects. So far nothing with tassels has survived her twisty-mouthed disapproval.
Tanis Makes Stuff 