So I’m slightly obsessed with clothes, Gentle Reader, in the way that only someone who has been told her entire life she can’t be obsessed with clothes can be. See, I’m a woman of size, fat, if you will, and I’ve been told my whole life–by people, by society, by the fashion industry–that I can’t love clothes because clothes aren’t made for my body.
I call shenanigans on it all.
I love fashion. I write on fashion, I’ve made an academic career on it (nineteenth-century fashion, to be sure), I’ve a closet full of clothes and boxes full of them in the basement. I. Adore. Fashion.
But my closet, as is customary for a house built in 1928, is tiny, tiny, tiny. So today, I had to make some tough decisions regarding clothing. To get rid of some, to box up some, to alternate my wardrobe. The early spring weather certainly isn’t helping it, either.
But something had to be done, and so it was. I’ve a stack of clothes to give away, and furthermore, four boxes in the basement, tubs, really, of clothes that are too warm for the weather now.
Yet, I want more. I want to go shopping and buy more pretty things!
It is, you can say, an obsession.