It’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it

I’m not your typical girl and I’m just gonna come out and say it: I don’t like shopping for clothes. Is that weird at all? I feel as though I should have boy parts because seemingly every female walking this planet gets orgasmic pleasure out of hitting the mall.

Now, there used to be a time where I had lost a significant amount of weight and had unlimited access to my dad’s credit card. This was, of course, during my stay in Kentucky and I bought more clothes than I would ever need (or be able to take back home using illegal methods but that’s another story for another time).

Since I have been back home I have gained all that weight back and even more on top of it and I have also been busy with school and then organizing everything for life after graduation and so I sort of kinda somehow neglected all the pretty clothes.

We’re talking laundry baskets full of stuff here. Mountains of clothes. And what strucks me most is probably that I have three different outfits all of which include the same pair of jeans - and that’s all I ever wear. The other 150,000 pieces of clothing are just sitting there, staring.

And staring they do. Actually, they seem to feel rather outraged about their neglect. Let me show you.

This is a neat little thing which, I suppose, could be described as a walk-in-closet although it’s really more of a seperate room off of the second-story hallway in my parents’ house. It has beautiful, milky glass doors that slide open soundlessly and a long time ago we put wooden closets inside of it. Both my parents and I share this thing. Fancy, isn’t it?

Thing is, you see, I’ve been neglecting my clothes and so when you slide aside the elegant doors, what you see ain’t pretty.

Basically, all my clothes - and I should refer to them as stuff from now on because it only serves them right; all my clothes are sitting in a humongous, ugly pile on the dusty carpet. Those that haven’t made it to the floor yet…

… are cramped into those shelves. And I’m sorry for the crappy quality of the photos, by the way. I was in a hurry and, as usual, I didn’t know how to avoid the bad lighting.

There’s not a single shirt here that’s properly folded up. And oh, it’s been like this for months. Like I said, I don’t ever wear any of these clothes because they don’t fit me anymore or I just don’t know of them and, sure, my parents have thrown fits over this situation, but they’ve given up eventually.

Today, this was all going to change. With the prospect of having to move all my stuff to my new place in a few weeks looming over me, I realized that this needed to be cleaned up. So I pulled things out of the shelves at random, stuffing them into a laundry basket. That one load was full within seconds is an understatement, the first pile went up to my belly button.

I heaved that heavy bitch into my room and started folding. And folding and folding.

Neat, little piles began to form. Have you noticed that my clothes are unnaturally colorful? Why is that? That hot pink G-string up there, by the way, was bought at Victoria’s Secret in Washington, D.C. - it’s so fancy, I think I’ve only worn it twice since back then. But hanging it up on the wall as a souvenir doesn’t seem quite right to me, either.

While I continued to fold shirts, tops, shorts, socks, pullovers, sweaters, pajama pants and underwear, it was astonishing to see what things had hidden between all this stuff for all this time. There were three single push-up bra pads (seriously, three?), one bra strap and an unforeseeable number of scrunchies and bobby pins.

By the time I went back to the walk-in-closet to get the second load to fold up, I had found many, many hats from Kentucky and scarfs from H&M and jeans that literally haven’t fit me for four years. I found shirts that still had the tags on them (from the Hard Rock Café in Louisville, for instance) and things I seriously didn’t know I owned.

Like this furry sweater-jacket from Abercrombie&Fitch. I had totally forgotten about it but now I remember that it was astronomically cool to have one back then and that I paid $98 for it which made my dad kinda unhappy. I also remember that for some reason, when I had just bought it, it came with an overwhelming smell of enticing men’s cologne which I loved. I sniffed this thing for weeks. And, of course, smelled like a man myself. Hm. Moving on.

Anyway, I kept on folding and kept on finding things that reminded me of Kentucky. It is literally impossible to touch anything in my room without stumbling over something Kentucky-related. My closet, evidently, is no exception.

By the time I finished folding everything, there were piles everywhere. Piles of shirts and piles of pants and piles of underwear. There was a pile of clothes that definitely hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine for way too long a time, a pile of things simply smelly and a pile of things that weren’t even mine but had accidently been burried underneath all my stuff.

When I was done, I took my aching back and my crampy-from-all-the-folding fingers and took a short break to email my mom at work about this extraordinary achievement of mine. It’s almost too pathetic to be true, isn’t it?

Then, I hurried to put everything back on the shelves. All clean and neat and folded.

I’m actually glad that at least my pants don’t seem to be affected by the bomb of color that must have exploded all over my clothes a while ago.

Now would you look at the floor in the walk-in-closet? That huge pile of stuff, it’s gone! And everything is back to order and open for business. Or whatever.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the allergic rash on my arms and hands and my runny nose are getting worse. Must be all the dust and dirt and pollen that have been sleeping soundly in that big ol’ mountain of clothes for the past 8,000 years and have now waken up. They are in disbelief and enraged.

They are currently attacking my immune system which has been known to react sillily to them. But I guess that’s alright. I more than likely deserve it.