In the closet with friends

I just cleaned my closet. I know, BFD, right? Wrong, so very wrong. You see, normally, my Big Susan, T has that responsibility. Yes, I’m a grown woman who has to have her closet cleaned by a friend because I occasionally have brain farts when it comes to what should be kept, what can be donated and what should be burned.

T has helped me clean my closet as long as I can remember. Usually, it’s during one our visits and she sits on my bed while I go through and show her. She nods, shakes her head, rolls her eyes or makes gagging sounds. I can be a tough sell though. I had a hard time letting go of a denim overall jumper/dress that I wore pre-pregnancy, through my entire HUGE pregnancy and wanted to wear again. I simply couldn’t understand that perhaps a dress that fit me when I was carrying a giant baby would best be given to others after that baby is born.  T helped me see the light and when I refused to open my eyes to it, she yanked it from my hands and put it in the bag.

Sometimes, just sometimes, she’ll throw me a bone and let me keep something that she would never, in a million years, wear.  You see, T, is just about the most fashionable person I know.  She has a style. My style is “it’s clean and comfy.” I shop in Target, Old Navy, Macy’s – Nordstroms is a big deal. T is a regular at Neimans.  She knows when they have a sale and doesn’t have to rely on the Sunday circular to find out.

T believes I should have at least a couple of white blouses in my closet, claiming, “You can wear them with anything.”  I pandered to her and bought a couple (yep, she was with me and insisted they looked fab). I never – and I mean never – wore them. White blouses and my boobs are not friends – I would drip something before I even left the house. I ultimately gave them away to someone who would appreciate them more than I did. Someone with smaller boobs.

I have some questionable shoes in my closet. I have shoes I have never worn and ones I even forgot I had (but really, those brown slingbacks I found hiding in the back are fab.)  T helps me sort through these, too. I had a pair of tan and white backless loafers – bought at a time when things like that were “in.”  They were very cool and I remember feeling positively hip when I wore them. She told me they made me look like a pimp.

It gets better. She can clean the closet from a distance, too. I swear, I can call her, describe an item of clothing and tell what face she is making by the silence on the phone.  Her admonishment is just as stern from another state.

Now as stylish as T is –she has business attire down to a fine art – she stays in her comfort zone as much as I stay I mine. Girlfriend loves, and I mean loves, a black cashmere turtleneck. I joke that every time she goes out  she likely has a black turtleneck, jeans and boots (casually speaking - she would never wear this to work even on a business casual day.) I am always right – at least 99.9% of the time.  Getting her to wear color is a personal goal – of mine.

We send each other pictures of things we want to buy and things we bought. I just sent her a pic of a pair of Ivanka Trump shoes that I covet but can’t bring myself to buy. She said they looked like me (this is absolutely the only thing Ivanka and I have in common.)  She shares my embarrassment over my Jessica Simpson tote bag (really - the logo is so tiny it’s not noticeable.) I remember feeling absolutely giddy when she sent me a pic of a new cocktail dress she bought that had actual color in it. She picked it out and paid for it but I felt like it was my personal victory.

So now, my closet is cleaned. Sort of. I tell T it’s still in pretty bad shape so she needs to visit soon and exorcise it of bad taste.  And, next time I visit T I’m getting into her closet. She’ll put up a good fight but at least one black turtleneck is going in the bag.

Disclaimer: T proofs all of my blog posts. So, if this one sucks and/or you hate it, I blame her completely.