Last week a shipment from eBay arrived. It was three pairs of shoes, a hat, a bottle of perfume, and some other stuff I’ve already forgotten about. When my fiancé Chris saw it, he sighed.
“More shoes?” he asked.
I responded how I always do, with one of my Rihanna-esque side eyes. “Yes,” I said, prepping one of my laser sharp feminist how dare you question how I spend my money rants.
“Uh. Where are you going to put them?” he asked. Suddenly, I realized he had a point. My closet is overflowing to the point of critical mass. So much so that Chris has to keep his clothes in a small closet in our guest bedroom. (Seriously though, how much room do you need for three pairs of jeans, a few Star Wars T-shirts and a Green Bay Packers jersey?)
Walking through my closet is like crossing over into the Forbidden Zone, where mortal human beings transform into vicious fashionistas, suddenly consumed by the need to organize each pair of pants by season and color. I’ve probably spent years of my life sitting inside my closet debating how in the heck I’m going to fit one more box of stilettos into this towering pile that could at any second collapse and kill everyone in our house. I live like this because I am insane, obviously.
Before I unpacked my new goodies, I thought I would try to make some space and—shudder—get rid of some things. One look at my mountainous collection and I’m convinced I need mental help. First of all, I clearly do not shop for myself. I shop for a 17-year-old girl who works at a Cinnabon.
There is no way I would ever think half of this nonsense is stuff I would actually wear out in public where people could see me. But I bought it anyway because some fashion magazine or blogger convinced me that if I bought this, it would magically turn me into a beautiful heiress living in Monaco and jet setting off to Ibiza. Every time I see a celebrity or model wear something cute and a fashion writer declares it’s a “must have,” I rush out like an idiot. It’s not my fault things are out of hand. I blame the chaos in my closet not on myself, but on the fashionistas who’ve misled me over the years.
I have so much jewelry emblazoned with the word “sexy!!” I feel like I’m obligated to move into the Playboy mansion. I’m pretty sure I spotted Britney Spears in the pages of People wearing a “sexy!!” necklace, so obviously I needed to buy 50 of them. I have no idea where it got into my head that I needed to emulate a teen pop star from Louisiana and purchase a piece of jewelry which declared my level of sexual worth, but this is who I am in life, apparently.
I bought a ball gown for an event once that looks like the signature gown in the Craigslist Casual Encounters evening wear collection. Some fashion writer convinced me that Kate Middleton had one exactly like it so I spent half a paycheck on it. The white lace says “I’m the girl next door,” but the black ribbon bustier says “I once stabbed a woman who tried to steal my wig.” It looks like what Snooki would wear to her cotillion.
Do you remember those rubber neon bracelets everyone wore in the ’80s? I used to stack my arms with them. I now have 70 of them, purchased in a spurt of hysterical nostalgia when Elle ran an article that they were back in fashion in 2012. Elle lied to me. It lied to all of us. These should have died in 1988, along with hair metal bands and Smurf Berry Crunch cereal. I cannot imagine the social setting that would be acceptable to walk around with this many neon yellow, pink, and blue rubber bracelets at one single time. Perhaps at a clown’s funeral, I don’t know. Boy George in 1986 wouldn’t have worn this many rubber bracelets.
I have an ungodly amount of colorful fishnet fingerless gloves. Black. Pink. Blue. If Sid Vicious comes back from the dead and wants to take me to high tea at Buckingham Palace, I’m good to go. I have no idea where I saw this trend, but I’m going to blame it on a rogue fashion blog that is probably run by a teenager in Iowa.
And why do I have so many knee socks? I remember buying one pair. There are now 14 in my sock drawer. Where did they come from? Did they have babies? Is this some polygamous knee sock cult I’ve spawned? I feel bad about breaking them up. What if they get angry and sue me for violating their mid-shin rights? I think I was watching Gossip Girl one night and saw Blake Lively wearing a pair with cute black Mary Jane heels so I put this infestation of horny knee socks right on her perfect head.
How many black purses does one person need? For me that answer is seven. Also, a pox on whoever came up with the teeny tiny purse trend. I blame 2004 Sarah Jessica Parker for making me think it was a good idea to buy a bunch of totally useless purses that can’t hold more than a tube of lipstick and only match with one outfit.
There’s also a large pile of ridiculous looking headbands that are leftovers from my statement fascinator phase. I blame Lady Gaga for this entire pile. Because if Lady Gaga can wear lobsters on her head at the European Music Awards in Paris, of course I can wear a bedazzled parrot on my head while shopping at the Food 4 Less.
But will I throw them away? Not in a million years. These are my beautiful fashion baby children and I will not be Sophie’s Choice-d from them. Over my dead body. My elaborately accessorized dead body. A dead body decked out with a beautiful feathered vintage hat that if I’m honest probably looks like two chickens had a bloody duel on my head. But I heard Jackie Onassis had one just like it, so it’s not going anywhere.
Rebecca Rose is still lost in her closet, trying to find a place for her new shoes. Contact her at rrose@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Mar 23-30, 2017.