A few days ago my daughter Clare went on a search-and-destroy mission in my closet, removing all the items that were (1) the wrong color, (2) the wrong cut, or (3) looked too “young.’
The result is that I’m down to one pair of pants, two pencil skirts and one A-line skirt, about seven Sunday blouses, and three casual shirts. I don’t own a single pair of blue jeans, and what Clare calls my “casual” shirts aren’t really.
While my sole remaining pants were in the washing machine, I had to mop floors in my A-line skirt. (“Hey, June, mind if I borrow those pearls?”) And since my gardening-day t-shirt picturing Grumpy the dwarf had been confiscated by Clare, I had to weed the tomato rows in a crisp white shirt with a tuxedo collar. (Anyone know how to remove clay soil from cotton?)
I don’t care if my favorite yellow shirt made me look like a jaundiced lizard. I don’t care if my beloved dirndl skirt made me look like Heidi’s spinster aunt. I want my wardrobe back.