The other day the Goddess told me it was time to switch my wardrobe from summer to winter.
Now, some people have been doing that forever. Packing vast closets full of bikinis and sundresses away to make room for wools and sweatshirts. Shunning sandals for slip-ons. My closet has never had that kind of variety. Depending on my situation (and my body heat index) I can wear sweaters in the summer and sleeveless T’s in the winter.
But I digress.
I don’t have a lot of clothes to switch between. One closet does it. Actually one bin does it. But the last few years I’ve been working on a wardrobe change to clothes that both fit better and reflect the semi-bohemian me I want to embrace. That means more clothes have been going to GoodWill than ever before. Of course, I’ve been bringing back clothes from there as well.
Again I digress.
Packing away some of my flowy gauzy summer dresses, I became a bit sad. I didn’t really wear many of my BoHo, soft, swimmy clothes this year. Being retired since last November, I’ve had no reason to dress up. This summer Covid19 had put a squash on any summer gatheriengs I dared to dream about.
No art fairs to wear my white and flowered Indian-sh gauze dress and wide brimmed hat. No evening concerts to wear my long black sleeveless lightweight dress and beaded shawl. No weddings to wear my sparkling parrots dress, no dinners with hubby on verandas with magnificent views, clad in a flowered long skirt and semi-sparkly top.
Just when I was determined to finally be ME, free of caring about what others thought of what I wore, comfortable yet special, I once again found a reason not to do it.
Oh, you say, clothing doesn’t make the woman. Her spirit does. I’m not going down the esoteric path today — I’m going down the woe-is-womanhood path.
I had so many plans for this summer and fall. I wanted to start taking a class (free for seniors) at the local university. I wanted to finally go to a live Shakespeare play at an outdoor pavilion an hour or so away. I wanted to wander through the Art Fair on the Square in Madison, finding new artists for my blog, fighting 90 degree temps with a blueberry vodka slush.
Packing away my fun summer clothes made me think how much I’ve missed, and how those opportunities, if they return, will be so different next time around.
Of course, I did keep out the dirty sneakers and stained jean capris I wore when I went camping with the kids. I didn’t touch the half rack of sweatshirts I’ll wear when I go for walks in the chill of evening. I will still hang up my t-shirts with the uni-kitty and leprechaun waving hello and the “This is my awesome Grandma Halloween costume” and the one that says “I park diagonally in a parallel park universe.” I can still wear bling with my University of Wisconsin sweatshirt and my all-season dark print leggings.
After all, I’m always looking at new artists and reappreciating the older ones while I wander through the art gallery; I’m listening to live concerts through my computer as I write, and can have a glass on wine with my hubby on the patio whenever I choose.
Clothing doesn’t make the woman. Neither does her location.
Her spirit and imagination makes does.