The last time I saw Marisa we talked about clothes, and the contrast between her style and mine. She has known me a long time but she has forgotten that when we met I had short black hair and dressed in work pants, tshirts, and a black tattered hoodie, the correct urban camouflage for that time and place.
But looking right always makes me squeamish and I moved on to a phase of wearing square dancing dresses, cocktail dresses, swishy polyester, dazzling sequined antique skirts. I carried handbags to match each outfit. I grew out my hair and dyed it three colors and gave up my old round spectacles for blue flashy frames. Because nobody else in my vicinity was doing any of those things.
I have been collecting things my entire life. Not generally on purpose, not with intent, not even always with my consent. It just happens — particularly clothes. For each incarnation of my identity I have had a compulsion to create a new wardrobe, and around the edges of this desire people give me gifts and oddities.
In Portland I had endless access to cheap vintage clothes and a dry basement with 800 square feet of storage. By the time we moved the entire area was full of boxes and dressers and stacks of hats, piles of shoes, racks of clothing.
During the Seattle years I was in a state of mourning. I was distraught over broken bones and betrayal, the deliberate cessation of certain friendships. I was trying to understand the reality of living in the landscape of my dreams.
I wore basic black every single day and paced the floors of my sweet little house, staring at the mountains through the picture windows, and then sat down to write with ferocity. I worked and played with my kids and went swimming. Eventually I cut my hair and dyed it back to a natural state and moved from black clothes to shades of brown and blue. But I did not wear my beautiful dresses; I was not feeling frivolous.
I gave away or sold half of my clothes when we moved to Seattle. Packing to come here I whittled the remaining allotment down by three quarters. But even after purging that volume I was left with a fabulous wardrobe, an entirely amazing set of clothes that would cost a fortune if I had to replace them. Not that I could replace them; I do not have the body type that is most valued by owners of vintage clothing stores. The outfits I’ve found over the years are in fact remarkably special.
And now it may all be ruined. I have no idea; the laundry has not called to report.
I have not allowed myself to be upset – yet – but uncertainty is not a favored emotion. I do not want to be compensated for the loss of my wardrobe.
I want my clothes.