Given that the city had flooded itself into a right mess, and one was compelled to stay at home and stare at the walls for visual relief, when one tired of staring into slate grey clouds breaking into the balconies of all the rooms. Yes, yes, eat your hearts out, you rain deprived unworthies, I have rain coming right into my house in the form of misty foggy clouds. They roll straight in from the creek, silently, ominously and before I can say cheese, they’ve ruthlessly attacked the clothes on my clothesline, dried to a crisp and made them wrung out wet again.
So where was I? Yup, staring at the walls, the gaze shifted to the cupboard and the uncomfortable realisation that everytime I went near it, I approached with the light quick steps of one expecting to be attacked by creatures from within who are just waiting to spring out at one, and attack one. The piles have been growing systematically, and now, much like the humans stacked top to endless bottom in the mothership of the Matrix, the clothes too are piling up in infinite mounds of uniform colour and texture.
Therefore, I girded my loins, metaphorically speaking of course, and did a quick obeisance to wrathful cupboard gods and approached mine with trepidation. As I flung the door open, two pile loads cascaded down on the floor and the third missed falling in quick succession by virtue of my not so superquick reflexes. That actually made life easier. I picked up all the clothes from the floor and dumped them on the bed and wondered if a Harry Potterish wand might not be in order here to make the task at hand simpler.
But having flung the gauntlet at self to prove one was not as disorganised as the cupboard seemed to be living proof of, I did a mental recce of all the infinite how to reorganise your wardrobe articles I had done over the years, and sift out the pertinent points. So I did. Pertinent point number one seemed to be chuck out clothes you havent worn in over a year. But since that would entail half the stuff I have, given I am still hanging onto them desperately in the hope that this year the butt will whittle down enough to let me squeeze myself into them True religions bought when the fruit of the womb was a wish and prayer, or that wonderful red embossed Dolce & Gabbana tshirt with strategic cutwork that once showed sleek flat collarbone and now shows saggy pinched skin, and deep indentations caused by heavy duty undersupport garments struggling hard to help unmentionable assets defy the irresistable call of gravity.
So I skipped step one. Naturally. But I did keep all the clothes I had not worn for a while to one side to decide which still had hope and which were the stuff to be given to grateful recepients. Stingy me, I ended up shoving them all back into the cupboard in a plastic bag with hope and prayers and earnest good intentions of whittling self down to their requisite proportions again.
The jeans were the next to come out. I live in jeans. I would wear jeans to a wedding if I could. I have some humunguous numbers of which I wear exactly three everyday. Reason? Do you even need to ask? They button up easily. They have 99 percent lycra which has been stretched to the point of no return. And I no longer care that I am sitting on the mucky grass with them, given that I have sat one gadzillion times on the mucky grass with them on. Much to the husband’s horror given that he shelled out the hard cash for them, and they didnt come cheap.
So I sorted them out too. Jeans that fit well. Read stuff that buttons up smoothly. Jeans that I need some effort to get into. Read jeans that I can do the snake dance and somehow manage to wriggle into. And the third category. Jeans that come to my thighs and stop there and go no further. No matter the wriggling, sucking in of cellulite, gentle patting of thigh fat into them legs. The third lot, I wrapped up again with much motivation and determination to get into even if I had to cut chunks of fat off them saddlebags with a paring knife, given that one pair in those was a Next skinny fit that I remembered from the distant past of being infused with the magical optical illusionary abilities to make me look ten feet tall.
The turn of the tops arrived. I threw the entire lot on the bed and stared at them in wonderment. I could clothe a small nation here, and not have anyone repeat an outfit. The husband snorted. If you wear one top a day, he said, I dont think you’ll repeat one for an entire year. Of course I developed selective deafness. So I sorted them out. According to colour and usage. And may I say unabashedly, brand. The streetchap maal to one side. The Zaras, H&Ms, Nexts, Promod, MNGs, etc to a safer side. The jersey and cotton and lycra casual wears went into one pile. The shirt dresses in another. The kurtis and ethnic types in a third. The slinky formal wear in the last. I stacked them and stood back, and looked in wonder at my good work. I had three piles of black. One pile of various shades of brown. One pile of white cottony summery ones. And the last pile was again, sequinned, embroidered and elaborate ones in shades of white and black and brown and green. Yup, the occasional red, pink, orange and blue stood out like sore thumbs, so I was perforce compelled to give them a pile of their own.
So go ahead. Call me boring the next time you see me in yet another version of black tshirt and blue jeans. In my defence I have two piles of these to wear out before I dare buy any other colours.
And I have yet to tackle the shoes, the bags and the sunglasses. But thats for another rainy day.