We moved 5 large Rubbermaid boxes, each full of my clothing. Full. Over flowing, full. And when use 'we' I mean 'my husband' lifted them in and out of the truck. Then he carried them up to our bed room where they have sat for two months.
I can justify every piece of clothing in there, while only being able to wear (either due to size or appropriateness) about 3 pairs of pants and 10 tops. (this does not include the various t-shirts and lounge wear/pajamas that I tend to live in).
The problem with these boxes is that they contain the core of my issues--from this vortex nearly every mental health dilemma I have can be identified.
Test the theory. I have.
My husband has played the game of "Pick up an Item, Any Item " and I dare you to watch my reaction. Tears. Yelling. Hysterical laughter. A mixture of both.
Now to add insult to injury the boxes sit upstairs in our bedroom as a daily reminder of "things not dealt with in a timely manner." (and by timely manner, I mean 10 to 15 years)
I told myself I'd deal with this in October...March is coming, I guess I better put my big girl pants on and prepare to face the stranglehold my clothes have on me.
But first I need a good night's rest...and the season finale of Downton Abby.
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