I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m getting older, but lately I’ve found myself with an insatiable desire to get my shit together.
There was a time when the mere idea of having a ‘routine’ on the weekend bored me to tears. What’s the use in having a routine when you could be hit by a bus tomorrow and live on in the minds of your family and friends as the person who ‘always did a big shop on a Sunday’?
Nowadays it’s the routine and some might say ‘mundane’ tasks that give me the most joy and make me feel secure.
On Sunday, with my husband swirling about in the mists of a post metal gig hangover, I set about my end of weekend routine. Putting a wash on. Cleaning the cats’ water fountain (yes, they have a fountain). Planning out my week in work because some sadist had opted to call the office at 4:30pm on a Friday and threw me off course (thankfully rarer than you’d think).
Stopping for a 10-minute coffee break – and instantly giving myself another job to do because I’m incapable of sitting still for long periods – I suddenly remembered that thing I’d been planning to do for months but had told myself I was too busy to get off my arse and do.
Clearing out my wardrobe.
I’d like to be able to tell you that I’m one of those incredibly fashionable PR types. I’d like to be able to say I’m up to speed on what’s ‘in’ and that my wardrobe includes a perfect balance of looks for every season. I’d like it even more to be able to say that I’m some sort of style guru, whose advice must be followed to the letter for fear of social reprisals, and the special kind of public scrutiny that comes with owning a Facebook account.
Actually, no. I wouldn’t like any of those things.
The truth of it is that I’m a habitual ‘window shopper’ where clothes are concerned. Destined to forever try on outfits that look stunning on the hanger but immediately make me want to set fire to my own eyelids the second I get a sideward glance of it stuck around my shoulders beneath the harsh yellow lighting of a New Look changing room.
Alas, this avoidance of the dreaded fitting rooms and the tedium of clothes shops means I’ll often hang onto clothes for several years and as a result, had been harbouring a surplus of old clothes that included:
- Pairs of jeans I’d forgotten I had – with and without holes in
- Band t-shirts that no longer fit, because I love food more than holding onto my youth
- Cardigans with bobbly bits
- 35 pairs of socks in various colours and patterns which I’ve held onto far longer than is acceptable, whilst inexplicably buying new ones because I ‘don’t have any’
- Bikinis that I wouldn’t bequeath a Cabbage Patch doll let alone another human being
- A Boohoo bodysuit (believe me, one is enough to be classed as a surplus)
I started out by placing all my shit in a pile on the floor and staring blankly at it.
First depressing thought; ‘I wonder how much money this heap represents?’
I quickly established three piles for the sorting:
- Keep (and iron)
- Charitable donation (anything that was still vaguely wearable)
It was a successful tidy up that left me feeling cleansed; not least because I packed up my Christmas jumpers and shut them away in the loft until December. I’d also stopped trying to fool myself that I was ever going to do anything other than look at that Boohoo body suit.
Plus, the cats seemed to enjoy rifling through the leftovers of my misjudged purchases, so there was a little something in the impromptu sort out for all of us.
Anyway, enough of this waffle. It’s a school night, and I’m off to place a large order on ASOS for stuff I’ll inevitably be returning the day after it arrives.