You definitely think more clearly when you don’t get drunk every night. I know that sounds like the most glaringly obvious statement that I have ever typed, but sometimes I notice how differently I go about the business of living now that I’m not cracking the Pinot at wine o’clock each night.
I’ve sorted out my clothes over the course of the last week, flogging a load on eBay and chucking the rest to a charity shop. Clothes that made me wince every time I opened my wardrobe door, and clothes that I weighed up with one eyebrow cocked, pondering when, if ever, I might dare to wear again, and clothes that resembled the sails on windsurfs, worn during weightier times.
These were garments that I mostly bought in moments of frantic indecision after roaming the city centre for hours on end, growing increasingly desperate and finally grabbing something that I would never normally wear in a month of Sundays, telling myself during those last moments of hasty ‘retail therapy’ that the outfit/top/jeans looked great. Until I got it/them on in front of my own mirror, that is, and the truth could no longer shield itself from me – I looked hideous.
In times gone by (the dark days of drunkenness) I did not have the energy for attending to such matters; clothes got stacked up in my wardrobe like a Boxing Day sales rack in a department store. Stuff that I simply never wore, shoes left in their boxes, tags hanging off labels, outfits never put together.
I used to buy an awful load of crap too, when I was hungover. Patience wasn’t a noticeable virtue of mine when faced with the task of shopping for new threads amongst the heaving masses, all the while nursing a throbbing head and an unnatural craving to consume yet more greasy food and frothy, extra-shot lattes. Town on a Saturday afternoon is not the place to be when one is beset by an attack of hyperglycaemic sugar cravings, forced to dawdle along behind hordes of casual browsers, when the only thought on your mind is locating food with an excessive degree of carbohydrate content as quickly as possible, in order to ram it down your throat.
Given that I no longer shop in this way (I am attempting, in my 38th year, to master the art of ‘capsule wardrobe shopping,’ thus making just a few well thought out investment buys that can be mixed and matched in a cohesive and stylish fashion), I decided to overhaul my bulging expansion of unworn clothes, in order to make room for a few garments that I might actually enjoy wearing.
And so yesterday, I found myself experiencing a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction as I bundled off a few of my old ‘rushed’ purchases in the post office to a buyer somewhere in the West Midlands, resulting in a bit of extra money in my bank account and about half a foot more space in my wardrobe. The cash is being spent on my eldest daughter’s bedroom makeover, that in itself giving me a positive feeling of doing the right thing and making one of my beautiful girls very happy. (The other one is happy too, but her needs are met a little more simply at the moment; milk, clean nappy, cuddles, sleep).
Aah, the joy of knowing that you are back in the driving seat of your life!