Self-improvement

So far, it feels like rehab

I stood naked in front of my closet on the morning of February 1st carefully surveying, from left to right and back again, what I was going to wear. Overwhelmed and under-inspired, I let slip from my lips the same exact words of exasperation that my best friend’s five-year-old daughter had recently muttered: I have nothing to wear. I probably pouted like her child, too.

Those words held an extra sting that morning because my bestie and I made a pact over drinks a short time after her daughter’s declaration, a mere ten days before I found myself with not one outfit to suit my mood. Our joint decision was one that shouldn’t have been made in haste but absolutely was.  We decided—while we sipped cocktails and spoke of the inevitable monotony of (even a good) marriage—that we shop to fill some unnamed hole, some vacancy in our lives.

Neither of us is lacking for things. Each of us has a lot of stuff. And we came to the conclusion that neither of us really needs more things or stuff. And so we shook hands and set our eyes on a shopping moratorium of six months. I was going to aim a little lower with a four week hiatus; after all, I graduated from San Diego State University and it’s a top ten party school. Why make unreasonable demands on myself? But Rachel is a Blue Devil. She’s the valedictorian of valedictorians. She’s magna cum something. Her basketball team wins everything. She’s determined and single-minded and she’s made of steel. Her DNA is made of nothing but Carbon and Iron.

So. With the exception of certain sundries, hair product and concealer, I will be purchasing no new wardrobe items of any kind until after August 1st.  I have removed most fashion blogs from my Google reader (not all of them—I need to figure out how to refresh what I’ve got) and I unsubscribed from my fashion email lists. Ideeli: gone. Just Fabulous: deleted. ModCloth, All Saints and Nike Women: adieu, mon cheris.

For some, this may be a big fat pfffffffffffft. But for me? Not shopping for one half-year is akin to a boozer going cold turkey by pouring her Stoli down the drain. It’s like Rush Limbaugh dumping his Oxycontin in the toilet. It’s more difficult than breaking up with Facebook. It’s more painful than quitting Angry Birds so you can have sex with your hot but overlooked husband over there, silently blinking at you from his side of the bed. (Not that that’s ever happened in this house. No, Siree. No monotonous marriage here. Just lots of really hot and frequent twisty sex in dangerous places.)

Anyway. I’m one week in and I’m already lamenting my commitment. Especially now that I’ve started yoga because…seriously, people.

I have nothing to wear.