The First Sign of Denial is Denial

I admit it. I’m sick. While my friends and family have pretty much acknowledged and accepted this fact, I can live in denial most of the year. But twice a year, once in the spring and once in the fall, I have a self-revelation that is pretty ugly and hard to ignore. Each of these seasons inspire me to dig out the boxes of clothing for the new season and I do the ritual cleaning out of my wardrobe and shoe closet. First of all, let me explain that in the spirit of sharing all things in our 35 year marriage, my husband and I share a walk-in closet. I use the word “share” pretty loosely as I have taken the liberty to use up a full 6 foot span of the closet and for reasons unbeknownst to me cannot, no matter how hard I try, squeeze one season’s worth of clothing into it. And then there’s the pile. I’ve got a stack of jeans that I can’t fit in stacked so high in the back of my closet that, if I were to lose a mere 10 lbs. and keep it off, I would never have to buy another pair in my lifetime. As for my husband, I’ve begrudgingly allowed him a 2-foot section in which to cram his modest three shirts and two pairs of pants. Good thing he’s not a clothes horse.

The far bigger issue however is trying to figure out what to do with my 41 pairs of shoes, most of which I can’t wear anymore now that I just bought a $300 pair of orthodics that will only fit in a pair of old lady’s shoes. But there is no way I’m ready to part with my little white leather slings, my blue iridescent flip flops, or my 3-inch dress heels. Afterall, orthodics or no orthodics, I do have some womanly dignity left, even if a protruding bunion and plantar fasciitis are bent on destroying any remaining trace of it.

My husband doesn’t have to worry about such things. Looking over to his little section of the closet, I see three pairs of shoes neatly lined up like birds on the telephone line. Brown casual, black dress, and white tennies. Ever so fleetingly, I sense some freedom in this simplicity. I wonder if I could live like that? Then from high on the shelf, the smart little red sandals I bought at the end of the summer sale last year catch my eyes, and I anticipate buying the perfect outfit to compliment them. And, its at that very precise moment that I know I’m sick, and probably incurable.