To be honest, I’m not liking this New Year’s Resolution very much at all. It’s been 66 days now since I resolved not to buy any apparel, shoes or jewelry, nothing to decorate myself up with for a whole year.
“The commitment is an exercise in self-discipline.” That’s what I tell people when they ask why I am doing this.
Dorothy over in West Point said, “Girl, you will die! A whole year? You will die.”
After a little more explanation, she said, “OK. I so get that. I do. I just can’t do it.”
Then she modeled the skirt she had paid $10 for. She asked, “How do you like my new shoes?”
I read that while you’re doing your resolution or practicing Lent you are supposed to concentrate on wholesome things. You are not supposed to whimper and whine, but sometimes, especially as the days appear more spring-like and daffodils peak out here and there, I just want to fling myself on the couch, beat my fist into a cushion, and cry like a 2-year old.
This tells me that I need this discipline very badly.
I went to the celebration that came up after my resolution and wore the brown outfit and the boots that I had decided I would wear because the celebration was not about me. The celebration was every bit as wonderful as I had hoped, but when I saw the pictures, I extremely disliked the brown outfit, so I tossed it into the giveaway pile.
That’s something I’ve been doing a lot of — going through my closet, forcing myself to try things on with shoes and either keeping it or giving it away. I also rounded up about four items that needed alterations. I used to could get by with clothes that were a little too big because I was thin enough and young enough that I could pull off that wide-eyed waifish look, but now-days a transformation has taken place, and the look is more like a bag of potatoes.
I’ve talked about getting rid of clothing so much that Sam woke one morning and said he dreamed he was cleaning out his closet rather than his usual fishing or making-eyeglasses dreams. So that morning he cleaned out his closet.
“Why do I have all these heavy cargo shorts?” he yelled from the hollow of the closet.
“Because you used to wear them to work.”
Out went the cargo shorts and dozens of shirts along with them; he decided to keep the T-shirts that said “Pink Floyd” and “Go Dawgs.”
One day I allowed myself a trip through Belk just to see what other women would be wearing. I started at shoes and realized I’d need weights to keep myself in the upright position. Then I went to the dresses. Then I crossed the aisle over to “Young Contemporary” where I saw my friend Martha.
“Martha,” I asked, “why are we in this section where we don’t belong?”
“Because over there,” she pointed, “is ‘Alfred Dunner,’ and that’s what my mother used to wear.”
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