I’ve loved to be well dressed all my life. Seriously, it is in my genes for some reason. I remember being as little as 8 and posing for my dad on one of his fishing trips. As an amateur photographer, he wanted to take some photos of his only and beloved daughter. I remember taking his green fishing net and posing with it – as a mesh veil to my straw hat, as a train to my dress, as a shoulder wrap… I went on and on, without ever seeing my mom or any other grown-up woman style herself this way or any other way at all.
In the coming years I did not have much of a chance to indulge into clothes though. Clothing was tight during communism, money as well. The democracy brought choice but it was a treat to be able to buy something. Still, I remained the best dressed in the class, albeit with my limited wardrobe. And I was happy. That was indeed my Bell Epoque regarding wardrobe.
When Variety Turns into Noise
The rise of thrift shops and me subsequently starting work, changed the landscape. Clothes were now abundant and money was for me as well. I was single, relatively well paid as a young professional and, without noticing, I suddenly started to make mistakes. The biggest one – I traded novelty for peace of mind, abundance for time. At the top of that I fell prey to clothes – I felt a calling to show each day at the office in a different outfit – just like royal ladies, which I grew to admire at the time.
Without noticing, I suddenly started to make mistakes. The biggest one – I traded novelty for peace of mind, abundance for time.
As bad as the situation was, it had to get worse before it got better. Early in my married years, with a baby to care for, based in a luxurious but remote house in a small town, the visits to the local “boutique” seemed to be one of the few pleasures left for me. So, clothes piled and piled and piled.
Things will go as long as they can, so it all lasted for years. Until even our huge house could not accommodate all the textile I owned and I had to move it outside. Left in the open, under the garden shelter, it became prey to weather conditions and the wild life. I felt truly responsible for letting clothes rotten, so I took the heavy decision to donate them. Luckily, I didn’t have to pay any more in order to send them to people willing to take them. Textile containers have emerged all over the country and one of those was placed in our small town as well. Heaven sent!
Alas, it turned out that the local container was much in demand and most of the time full to the brim. There was another one in the parking lot of the METRO store nearby. Filled with desperate decisiveness, I started to load the bags for donation in the car trunk. Soon the trunk got filled to the brim but the bags were still all over the garage.
So, I started filling the back seat and on and on. On the day I planned to donate the clothes, I first dropped my son at the subway station and then headed to METRO. I remember this moment clearly – it was the moment I realized something was off. The car was so loaded with clothes that the only place available was for my son to sit. I anxiously reasoned that if the clothes container at METRO was full, I shall be in a big trouble – there was literally no space to fit the grocery purchases I had to make.
I remember this moment clearly – it was the moment I realized something was off.
Luckily, the container was almost empty and I sneaked time and again between my car and it to throw all the bags I have brought. My anxiety deepened as I was unconsciously rehearsing a lie to tell to a sudden onlooker, when he asks me how did I end up with that many bags with clothes… I noticed with a huge relief that since it was early morning, the parking was almost empty.
The later hours were filled with my thoughts circling around the whole experience – I felt like a criminal who managed to commit their crime and not get caught. Why would a successful professional, caring mother and loving wife feel this way? It was the clothes, the clothes, the clothes.
They have cast their spell on me. They have turned me into their slave, displaced me from being their master. I was addicted to the variety they brought to my life, to the novelty, to the eye-pleasing aesthetics. There was so much to buy and to wear, what a joy! Alas, a flawed one. You can’t bet your joy on accumulating big things. Stamps are OK. Clothes are not. They take precious space and demand wearing e.g. action. And the more you have of them, the more confusing it gets how to wear them. Style actually gets better as the amount of clothes gets smaller.
The closet cleanup process was not easy or straight forwarded in any way. There were relapses, grief over pieces gone forever by mistake, emptiness. But once it was relatively set, the relief was huge. I felt again the owner and not the owned-one. The joy of novelty was replaced with the joy of familiarity.
The excitement of variety made space to the feeling of stability and security that you know what you have and how to deal with it.
Looking back, I do not regret the demanding period of excess. I needed to go through it to understand where novelty truly belongs. Clothes are still important to me, but they are no longer responsible to make life feel interesting. Familiarity has its own quiet richness: knowing what fits, what works, what reflects who you are — without effort, without accumulation. When novelty is no longer outsourced to the wardrobe, it returns to where it belongs: to skills, to ideas, to experiences, and to the slow confidence of inhabiting your own life.