I Am My Wardrobe

Bethsy - Olathe, Kansas
Entered on October 1, 2011
Age Group: Under 18

I really need to clean my closet. Not for the purpose of simplifying, but so I can fill it with better clothes. Though my closet has many good pieces in it, there are some things that absolutely have to go but I just can’t seem to part with. I’ve outgrown things; things like a pair of size zero jeans that remind me of a time in my life when zero wasn’t just the amount of money in my bank account. Things like an old bra that looks like it would be better suited to hold a pair of skittles. Things that should be dismissed. But some things are just plain ugly, bought during a fad that lasted about a week. And some things, I either swiped from another overflowing closet or are a result of an overstayed sleepover. And some things, decided to sneak themselves into the vicinity of my room. If I got rid of all these things, I could actually fit all the better, not necessarily newer since thrift stores are a must, items that would improve the overall quality of my over-quantified closet.

My personality is much the same; it needs to be cleaned of the old, the immature, the hideous. Some characteristics have higher priority on the “let’s burn that in a hole in the ground” list. For example, my temper is not just a pair of holey socks; it is a frightening turtleneck that’s not only chaffing, but is an in-your-face as a puked up mass of crayons. It is a menacing black dress that engulfs me with the sheer amount of fabric, takes two people to take off because of the stubborn zipper, and makes me look like Cinderella; if Cinderella worshipped the Devil. My temper is not an easy toss in the trash; it is a continuous application of pesticide because it keeps coming back. If I eventually cut down my temper, and other unattractive qualities, to a few granny panties and a skirt that screams all girls private school in the least fantasize-worthy way, I’ll have more room for lovely summer dresses of humbleness and my currently non-existent collection of unselfish hats.

I have been alive for a total of sixteen years, and for maybe about four of those years I have been aware, and have been attempting to remove, the unstylish skeletons of my closet. I’m not aiming at perfection, I’m just aiming at my best. I believe that I am my wardrobe, ever-changing, not always improving, but I won’t give up. Because with every pair of hip-crushing jeans I burn and every pair of blister-inducing stilettos I give to my small-footed mother, I am that much closer to a well-rounded closet. A closet that is not just admired, but will want to be borrowed from. And by then I’ll be so nice, I won’t even mind sharing.