I like Antiques Roadshow, except when an episode spontaneously appears in my closet.
I have clothes from every size and stage of my life. This is partially because I hate clothes shopping. Whoever designed the fitting rooms with their obviously distorted mirrors and brassy lighting has a sadistic side. Don’t even start me on bathing suit shopping.
Aside from shopping aversion, each garment is attached to a memory and I have a touch of hoarder in my blood. I never would have admitted that when I was cleaning up my mother’s house after she passed. Her closets were a comparable archeological dig through layers of living. At the time I was clear that this would NEVER be me. Alas, it is.
I have dresses I bought with my father patiently sitting as men do while I sported a variety of options. This was before the mirrors became unkind and the light wasn’t quite as revealing. I will never wear those dresses, but the picture they evoke is hard to give away.
I have clogs…yes, clogs. I think in the back of one closet are bell bottoms. (I feel cathartic writing this.)
What’s in the attic?
I don’t remember. That would truly be a cobwebby stroll down memory lane. Some of the people on the real Antiques Roadshow find wonderful and valuable things in their attics. I don’t think I’ll be so lucky.
When you walk into my house, it looks appropriate, clean and orderly. But the shadow of memories lingers in obscure places. Ok… I’ll fess up that I have a sort of mausoleum in my basement with my entire family, two-legged and four-legged, in a variety of urns. Maybe all of this is why the show Hoarders fixates me. Sigh… it’s time for a purge!
As my only surviving relative in the next generation, my poor niece doesn’t deserve to be left with it all to sort and comprehend. Ok, I’m making a pledge to get at this during Spring. Maybe a dumpster will motivate me…at least one layer? Maybe one closet at a time?
Remind me if I… (ahem) forget.
With love, Rosanne
