Clothed

Who knew cleaning out a closet would be so hard? I’ve been retired for almost five years and have been procrastinating when it came to purging my work clothes. Since dust has now settled on the hangers of unworn clothing, I knew it was time to deal with it.

Yet, I wasn’t expecting to stand in the midst of my wardrobe, face-to-face with unexpected emotions. And, my first thought was to blame my mother—not really—but well, maybe…sorta.   She’s the reason I have so many clothes.

Growing up, my mom made all my clothes. She was an excellent seamstress, with an affinity for creating ruffly baby outfits.  But to a fashion-conscious preteen, it was awful.  Not because she made me wear childish clothes—even worse, she’d discovered polyester double knit—the fabric of my nightmares. I heard her say a thousand times that it was practically indestructible and washed well.  While that may have been true, it was also miserably hot, came in horrible colors, and wasn’t at all cool at school. More than anything, I wanted to wear trendy attire like my classmates.

My pleas fell on deaf ears.  I can count on one hand the number of times I got a new outfit from a department store. One Christmas, I got a “blue-light special” from Kmart—a blue polyester bodysuit with a coordinating plaid skirt.  Then there was the deeply discounted Lemon Frog short set I wore in a fashion show as a graduate of Sears’ School for Young Charmers.  Thankfully, in junior high, I was on the receiving end of a few store-bought hand-me-downs and, briefly, my attire agony waned…at least until the next season’s trend emerged.  My harsh reality was that my outfit always made me feel like a misfit.

High school gave my fashion trauma a reprieve.  Transferred to Hawaii, the clothing culture was much more relaxed.  Who could be stressed about wearing muu-muus and shorts to school?  I didn’t balk when Mom brought home colorful Hawaiian fabrics and patterns.  As an in-demand babysitter, I spent my earnings on OP shorts, Hang Ten shirts, wooden sole clogs, and snazzy Famolare sandals.  Finally, I was no longer fashionably awkward!

After high school, we moved to the East Coast.  When I started working in Washington, DC, my couture anguish returned with a vengeance.  I was glaringly un-vogue—until a new friend with great style convinced me to spend a chunk of my paycheck on a pair of all-the-rage Vidal Sassoon jeans.   

As the cashier rang up my sale, I realized why my mother made my clothes.  It hadn’t been her goal to intentionally make me feel like an outsider, plain Jane; she sewed because it was all they could afford at the time. While I appreciated all the hours she spent sitting at the sewing machine, it didn’t resolve how less-than I’d always felt—a feeling I vowed never to feel again.

That was when the frantic balancing budget began—trying to figure out how to live within my means and, at the same time, dress smartly.  I really wanted to shop at Foxmoor and fill my closet with Gunney Sax dresses, but realistically, I had to settle for the no-name brands on the clearance rack at J. C. Penneys.

About a decade into my career, the dress-for-success mindset infiltrated the workplace. Business suits, specifically designer Kasper suits, were the acceptable standard.  The longing to be in style cost me greatly, and not just with my checkbook. My self-worth became tied to my appearance. If I presented myself well—perfectly accessorized and chic, then no one would know that inside I felt messy and insignificant.  Eventually, when I reached the point where I could afford to shop at the trendy clothing stores that had been out of my price range, I felt like I’d finally arrived!

Slowly, I built up my wardrobe—which is why I was standing in a full closet…struggling.  I never expected discarding garments to be such an emotional thing; yet there I was—repeatedly—yanking an item off its hanger and tossing it in a pile, only to retrieve it moments later.

Perhaps purging is difficult because it’s deeply tied to my identity.

Each outfit is evidence that I showed up faithfully in the workplace—even when it wasn’t where I wanted to be.  A career outside of the home hadn’t been in my game plan, yet I was there decade after decade.

Some of the clothes are attached to memories. There’s the outfit I wore when I rocked a job interview. The first sweater set I purchased from Talbots at regular price.  The cute tunic I wore—17 years ago—to dinner with my former commanding and executive officers. The peasant blouse that brought compliments every time I wore it.

But most of all, these fabric trophies were proof that I’d finally achieved what I thought—fashionably speaking—was the standard of good enough.

I realize now that I’d bought into a lie. I believed that unless I looked a certain way, I wasn’t good enough.  If I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t acceptable.  If I wasn’t acceptable, that meant that I wasn’t worthy to be chosen.  And if I wasn’t chosen, I’d never be loved.  From this standpoint, that sounds utterly ridiculous—but it was my perception and had been my reality.

The truth is that I am fashionably designed by God, woven by His hand for His specific purpose, and for His good pleasure. I am clothed in His righteousness, deemed worthy and chosen, and loved immeasurably.

With a fresh perspective, I went to work and filled a large bag with clothes that no longer identified me.

And I tearfully had the thought: what I wouldn’t give to have Mom sew for me again.  Well, as long as it wasn’t polyester double-knit.

She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.

- Proverbs 31:25