1. The collective value of my clothing is not that high. I have bought most of it during its second lifetime. So it's okay to have a totally unreasonable amount of it, requiring me to have a separate closet for my jackets and underbed storage containers for winter coats, scarves, tights, gloves, and hats. We don't need to discuss the fact that my shoes don't all fit in a closet or even a general area right now. This isn't the time or the place. The time is 1 a.m. The place: a bar. The scene: a yelling match between myself and my significant other about our personal needs for space.
2. Our apartment was born in the 1920s. At that time, my grandmother, who was born in 1905, would have been about 15. She had both the terrible challenge and wonderful privilege of growing up without such concepts as "Target" or "Forever 21," whereby she would have amassed ridiculous amounts of moderately to barely necessary clothing that require a closet wider than her body to fit in (that is truly how wide the closets in our apartment are; they mostly only fit skeletons).
3. Most of the time, I work really hard. I like to go into my closet and look at my less practical shoes and have a heart-to-heart with them, and say things like "you ought to get out more often," and "you deserve love," and "you should have as many drinks as you want!"
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| I should have worn a belt. This picture is a bit tilted. Blame it on the alcohol. |
Jeggings: Target, $20
Shoes: Bronx via Desu Couture, $26
Necklace: Stone & Honey via Young Blood, gift
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