M Y SISTER’S CLOSET is not mine. Hers clothes the woman she is right now, harboring nothing that she has not worn in the last year, while in my closet live eight or nine women, all of whom I know, of course, since they are all women I have been or maybe even continue to be. In my closet can be found the eager newlywed, the anxious pregnant woman, as well as the matron of honor who had been in the champagne. There’s the slightly daring woman I sometimes reveal in what very well may be my very last mini-skirt (itself an essay), as well as the great over-compensator for that thigh-high little number, the Brooks Brothers Watch Plaid kilt. I let those two hang together to keep each other in check.
My sister’s closet is another woman altogether, someone, like the cook in her kitchen and the gardener amid her bedevilingly edged beds, who I keep meaning to be.
Our closets are a fine place to locate a piece of memoir, especially if I tell you that the loveliest clothes in my closet are those she gave me, pretending as she does, that these are cast-offs. How could they be? We are three sizes apart. I’m on to her, but we both pretend I’m not.
And if you wanted to write the same piece of memoir, you could visit anything personal—a jewelry box, a toy bin, the pantry, perhaps—of you and your sibling. Imagine what differences are there amid Scrabble and the flour, as well as what joyous similarities you might explore.
And, if you want to do as we’ve been told to do by our gracious new president, add a service piece. That’s what we call it in journalism when you tell the reader how to do something specific, in this case, something good for the world. You would then reference the YWCA program called My Sister’s Closet (there is one in my area), that collects gently worn clothes from people like me and gets them to women who have emerged from abusive relationships, or are newly off the street and need professional clothes to wear to job interviews.
Memoir and service all in one. And to think: It came out of my closet.
What have you got in your closet?
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My closet used to be filled with clothes for a whole army of women, from size 10 to size 24, reflecting my lifelong battle with my weight, a battle I have generally lost. When I lost weight (yet again!) last year, I burned my bridges and got rid of everything above size 12. Now I have 10s (for when I’m feeling svelte) and 12s (for when I’ve been piggy) and that’s it. The cast offs went mostly to the Salvation Army, though I did give a couple really nice things to friends. (Now that was a delicate conversation — “I’ve just lost of a lot of weight and this is now way too big for me. Would you like it?”) I went on several shopping expeditions with my sister-in-law to buy new clothes and it seems her vision of me and my vision of me are radically different. She saw me in all kinds of form-fitting girly outfits with deep necklines. I saw myself a thinner version of my usual tomboy/librarian persona. Eventually, I compromised and let her talk me into a few snug v-neck sweaters. Apparently, even at the ripe old age of 51, I am still a work in progress.
Welcome back, Sandy. The dual-memoir–the She Said, She Said–of this is marvelous; that your sister-in-law sees you one way, and you see yourself another. I wonder how many of life’s worries would be obliterated if we didn’t maintain such rigid margins between those two views. You capture that exact moment of intuition beautifully here in a few lines when you compromised. I bet you look great in those sweaters while not losing any of the important inches of your tomboy/librarian self. Lovely. Thank you.
My closet is the elephant in my bedroom. It’s packed to the gills, with clothing I rarely or never wear, and a few things I love. Every week, I look at the bulging doors and swear I’m going to tackle it–but something always intervenes. The irritating Suze Orman (at least I think it’s her) says that people who have disorganized closets/cabinets/etc. are out of control in other areas of their lives. Though this is somewhat true of me, I seem to have regained some power over at least some of those other areas, while the closet remains renegade. Maybe it is about weight–a sister-friend, frustrated with her (in my eyes, miniscule) weight gain, said that if it weren’t for clothes, she wouldn’t care. And there’s truth to that: when we can’t squeeze into something, or something else slips off our hips, it’s the first, most easily processed sign of a change in the body. And all of that, hiding in one place? Maybe it’s easier just to keep those doors shut (if you can get them closed, that is.)
An interesting notion, that skirts can keep each other in check, especially if they hang together. And I’ve got to mention that donating gently worn clothing helps the environment as well as the charity and the recipient. Growing and manufacturing new fibers adds to global warming, but passing along what you no longer need does not.
Hi, Cheryl: Welcome. I love that perspective. So passing it sister-to-sister is a good thing in more ways than one. How wonderful. Thank you. Please visit us often.