As I sort through my things, and D makes space for hers, I have realised several things.

1) I own 25 pairs of jeans, but only comfortably wear three of them.

2) I own several pairs of shoes and only comfortably wear three of them.

3) Bringing all my clothes here was a mistake

4) Keeping all these clothes is a mistake.

5) Lists are boring. I’ll stop. Sorry.

So, as I was saying.  I have lots of clothes shoes etc.   I have obviously bought them with a view to wearing them.  Yet somehow, I always gravitate towards the same things in my wardrobe. I know that my wardrobe choices are conservative.  I am a jeans and a top girl, no fuss, no make up.  Occasionally I dress up, and I suppose it feels good while it’s happening, but after half an hour standing in anything higher heeled than converse trainers, I am grumpy and incapable of coherent thought about anything other than my feet and the agony they’re in.  When I wear make up, I spend the whole time trying not to laugh because I cry when I laugh and very soon end up looking like a panda.  Anything that hinders my ability to laugh is an abomination in my book.  Hence – no make up.  When I do wear a dress, I wear sneakers to the door of where I am going, change in the car, make my entrance, and have spare shoes in a bag.  Why do I put myself through it?  I am not particularly short, in fact, whenever I wear heels people always comment that I am too tall.  When I was growing up, (and I grew up fast – physically at least) my height was the bane of my existence.  All the girls in my year were 5’4″ and under.  Until we were 16/17 the boys were too.  I was the Jolly Green Giant.  Well – Blue – we are Greek after all.

I am not saying that all Greek women are short, because as I have said before, I don’t like to make sweeping generalisations (ahem).  But all of the Greek women of my aquaintance until the age of 21 were.  Not just short, but petite too.  So the tall, shall we say big-boned girl stuck out like a sore thumb. I learned to adapt.  I became the one who always bought booze and cigarettes while the others lingered outside.  If I was going to be a freak, I was going to be a useful freak.  I have never been asked for ID.  Ever. Anywhere.  Not even in New York when I went there as a teenager.  People just assume I am old enough.  Not old, but old enough. Anyway.  I was talking about shoes.

D reckons you can never have too many shoes or accessories, but I beg to differ. Let me define too many: too many of something is when there are so many of them that some of them never get used.  This is the predicament of most of my shoes, clothes and accessories.  I have shoes that I wear a lot.  But I have more shoes that I wear never.  And since I only have two breasts, and it is one bra per pair, perhaps the 30+ bras in my underwear drawer are overkill.  Even now, after a huge wardrobe clear-out in September of last year (and I am embarrassed to say how many of the items I gave away still had the tags on them) my wardrobe is chock full of clothes I never wear.  Only a centipede would need the amount of shoes I own.  Since I am now adapting to a smaller living space, I think another cull is in order.  The people in the charity shop I frequent (having been turned away from several others – OXFAM are so snooty) have now started to pretend they’re closed when they see me coming.  Still, just throwing it away feels wrong.  If I was more organised, I suppose I could put some stuff on ebay or something, but I have found selling things on ebay a hugely complicated process and usually more effort than it is worth.  Still though, I will get rid of things that I don’t use.  This has become my mission.

I have this romantic notion that when I have less stuff, I will have more space.  And that might be accurate if I wasn’t living with D.  As it is, every space I free is filled with D’s hairbands, earrings, shoes, magazines and other things.  Yes, I said magazines.  D likes to read magazines.  Nothing wrong with that.  But after she has read them, she doesn’t do what everyone else does and put it in the recycling bin.  That would be too obvious.  She makes piles of magazines.  Towers of information one could say.  And when one tower becomes too big, she starts another.  Why does she keep them? I hear you ask.

Here’s the story:  D plans, at some indeterminate point in the future, to go through the magazines and cut out the parts she finds inspiring/interesting.  At this point the house will be filled with small square bits of paper floating through the house like tumbleweed, whispering whenever we open a door and rustling in the breeze.  Once she has done this (and we are still buying and keeping magazines during this process) she plans, at some still indeterminate but even later point, to put them into a scrapbook.  So to recap: piles lead to clippings which lead to scrapbook.  Of course, there is no way that all the clippings are going to fit into one scrapbook.  She currently has two huge boxes of clippings and about 50 kgs of magazines lying around the (have I said small?) flat. We are talking at least a shelf full of scrapbooks.  So another trip to IKEA is in order then.  But not yet.  After all, this plan has been ten years in the making, and we haven’t even bought a scrapbook yet. I wouldn’t want to hurry things.  Hurrying things makes us careless.  We wouldn’t want to miss cutting out a 2cm x 2cm picture of a man wearing a bow tie that makes it look like he has a mouse sticking out of his collar.  Oh wait, we didn’t miss that one.

Phew.

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