hoarding: buried alive, in tasteless turn-of-the-century garb

I’m starting to suspect I’m a hoarder.

I was in denial through several episodes of the eponymous show, shaking my head at the characters on the screen and thinking, “those sad, poor people,” never pausing to think about what the inside of my own closet looks like.

But I’ve finally started to run out of room ┬áin our little fourth-floor walkup, which, while sunny and open, totally lacks storage space, or at least enough for this collector of wool J. Crew sweaters from the last five Christmases.

Like, seriously. Did I really need that crew neck in pink and pink argyle?

Of course, the question at hand is do I really need that in pink and pink argyle? Because, the time is now, people! I’m currently in the process of swapping my winter and summer clothes into and out of storage, making it the perfect opportunity to play survivor with my long sleeved black shirts (of which there are like fourteen.)

Unfortunately, I remain kind of stalled, frozen by the possibilities and patterns and petite sizes before me. I’m stuck in a sea of Maybes.

Like, Maybe I’ll lose 20 pounds and look great in that artifact from my thin high school days. Or Maybe I’ll gain twenty pounds and look great in that artifact from my heftier college days. Maybe I’ll start working out more than once a century and have a need for all those T-shirts. Maybe one day I’ll get a job where I can’t wear my pajamas until 3 p.m. everyday (the horror.) But you just never know! Can one ever be too prepared when it comes to one’s wardrobe?

Answer: Yes, when you live in an apartment with two, well, closet-sized closets.

There are a few other Maybes haunting me too (Maybe flared pants will come back into fashion and those purple bedazzled cords I scored at Abercrombie in 2001 will suddenly be totally chic; Maybe one day I will break my life-long habit of having to wear my outfit-of-the-moment four times a week.) But the biggest Maybe is this: What if that white satin belt with the massive bow on the side/that asymetrical-hemmed, skin-colored swiss dot skirt/some other obscure piece scrunched in the back of my dresser actually is the key to some amazing future outfit I just haven’t had the good sense to dream up yet? What if, one day, I’m getting dressed for an occasion that requires me to leave my house, and all I need to Complete The Look is that tight black T-shirt with the giant pink Polo logo on it? Ignore the fact that that would obviously be a very fucked up day — it could still happen! Who knows what the style gods will bring in the 2010s?

In other words: what if I finally have a chance at being crowned best-dressed – instead of Most Accident Prone and Most Stressed Out, like I actually ended up winning during our high school senior superlatives – in real life?

It’s too much pressure, too much possibility. It crushes any resolve I once had to take that pile of too-short jeans to Goodwill. And it also…stresses me out.

Just like all my high school peers predicted.


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