It's spring-cleaning time. Starting in my clothes closet, I organize into two groups: donations and packables. The packables go back into the closet until May, when they get boxed to go north to Massachusetts for the summer.
My "faves" stay with me for ten years or more. I keep them because I can still fit into them (YEAH!!) and because the style eventually comes back around in fashion. What goes around, comes around, right? I tell Charley I really am trying to save him money.
I start with the skirts. If they're obviously too tight or too short, they go into the Goodwill pile. A definition of "too short" is open to interpretation. I have decided that kneecaps are not my most attractive feature (I'm still looking for what it is!), so that means a lot of the skirts have to be hemmed. Among the skirts I haven't worn in two years, none will get donated! Maybe there are perfectly good jackets hanging somewhere in there that go with them.
The blouses are easier. I recently wore a fancy pink lace top that showed a bit of cleavage. Then I noticed a couple of ladies whispering and looking in my direction at a party. So I decided that wrinkled cleavage over sixty isn't an asset. The lace will get donated. There's also a silver lame top with spaghetti straps, purchased in Italy, and a long, tight tunic that shimmies down over my hips when I wear black tights. They both go into the Goodwill pile. I'll throw the tights in the trash. My workout capris are now loose enough so I can breathe and pump iron at the same time.
A few dresses I love must also go into the Goodwill pile. One is bright red, with a "handkerchief" hem of different pointed lengths. It's slinky and fun and fits perfectly. But I must have been delusional a couple of years ago when I bought it. I look like a male cardinal on steroids in it, so it's never left the closet. There's also a white shift dress with tank top and "poofs" all around the skirt. "Poofs" around the thighs are a bad idea to start! Furthermore, the arms of anyone over sixty should probably be hidden, unless you've produced an aerobics video. In fact, no matter how many tricep machines I struggle with at the fitness center, I still have angel wings hanging beneath my rather large biceps.
There are pants with cuffs that my heels get caught in and others with wide, wide legs that brush against the floor mats when I drive and get filthy. Into the Goodwill pile! Any pants with pleats around the waist only make me look ten pounds heavier. Those too must go. And finally, my beloved gray jeans. They're pencil-thin and make my muscular calves cramp because they're too binding. The jeans make me saddest.
I find high suede boots that take ten minutes to pull on and black satin pumps with heels I can't even stand in. Actually, anything with a heel over two inches must go. I spent five months in therapy one year, suffering from a dislocated, herniated disc; shoes must be as flat as possible. Unless I can stand in them for more than an hour and have fallen in love with them, of course.
Which is the story behind one reptile-printed three-inch wedge with laces that Charley helped me choose in Key West. He chose it immediately among the two dozen pairs I was trying on at a shoe store. They would have looked great on a Paris runway and I felt years younger in them. The only problem was that they dislocated my big toes because of the severe angle, and I never wore them again. I haven't told him.
Sandals in south Florida are mandatory at the pool and beach, so I am forced to wear the widest rubberized models for my bunions. It is truly painful to donate some of the bejeweled, metallic, or seashelled versions that I have collected from our travels. Instead, my sneaker collection keeps growing, for back support while walking, working out, playing tennis. I'll do anything, not to be forced into footwear with velcro that is specially molded to fit my lumps and bumps!
Am I age-appropriate yet?