Mama Monkey is back in the hospital.
The just-in-case clothes. The when-I-start-working-again blouses. The need-this-for-a-cocktail-party dresses. The so-and-so-bought-me-that t-shirts. I realized that I'm not hoarding things. I'm hoarding memories, and, by extension, I'm hoarding a former identity. The tops pictured above are all things I wore regularly when I worked full-time. Y'know. Four and half years ago. Unless our situation changes, the plan is for me to stay at home until our youngest is in school. Y'know. Six years from now. Ten years? Was I really planning on keeping these tops for ten years?? And we all know that even if I do, no way will I want to wear them!
So why are they here? They're here for the memories. They're here so that when I look in my closet, I'm reminded that I used to have a job that did not involve diapers, Goldfish, and spit up. But if I'm being honest, what good does that memory do me? I'm never going to be that person again. I'm never going to be 25 and without life's most serious responsibilities. Wouldn't it be better to just...move on?
As it turns out, my memory is not so good. One shirt is frayed. Others are too small. One was never that comfortable anyway. One I will keep, because my husband bought it for me, and because getting to keep one is the deal I made with myself. If I'm going to stuff my closet with questionable items, I'd much rather that they were things I've sewn. Those memories, of learning a new skill and trying different styles, make me happy. Me-mades can stay. Everything else, well, I'll forget I ever had it in the first place!