Two weekends ago, in the spirit of making room for the baby, Will and I were SUPER productive and started going through our hall closet where — in addition to coats — I hung a lot of my fancier dresses that I didn’t want in my regular, every day closet. I pull out this short little black number I haven’t worn in like 7 years (one of those going out dresses that elicited a bewildered “HOW IS THAT A DRESS/HOW WOULD THAT EVEN COVER YOUR CROTCH?” from Will to which I was like “WELL IT DID WHEN I WAS A SIZE ZERO SO” even though I was seriously wondering how even then it did). I had to get real with myself and toss this dress in the donate pile because 1) even NOT pregnant there is no way I’m squeezing myself into that thing anytime soon and 2) I have literally no reason or occasion to wear this dress ever again.
And this happened like 8 more times with dresses that were from my early/mid 20’s. And I weirdly didn’t want to get rid of them — I was clutching on to them for dear life. I’m 31 and my 30’s are great so far. I’ve said my goodbyes to my 20’s. BUT DID I REALLY? Every time I put one of these dresses in the donate pile it felt like I was mourning my 20’s. GOODBYE YOUTH. Even though I haven’t lived that life, these dresses were echos of, in quite some time.
As I put the last dress in the pile, I look at Will and I’m like, “I HATE CHANGE!”