Introduction to the closet

I have forty black dresses hanging in my closet.

By black I mean black, not black with flowers or black-and-another-color-patterned or black and white, just black.

By forty I mean I am incapable of obtaining an accurate count of the number of black dresses I own. I go to my closet and start counting, but when I get to around thirty and I get distracted, or I find some dresses folded up in a drawer, or I remember that some are at the cleaners. I also have a problem because I keep acquiring more black dresses. So I stopped counting at forty. Forty is the number over which I refuse to count.

Forty is a solid number, it has corners. It feels like a cube, which you can hold and toss from hand to hand. It has biblical significance. I could struggle against temptation in the desert, but dazzle the devil with a new dress each dawn.

The number of black dresses I own exceeds the number of boys whom I have kissed.

I have more black dresses than I have memories.

Some people, the sorts of people profiled in magazines for their excellent sense of style, may suggest I don’t own that many dresses, black or otherwise, that my closet is small and pedestrian and not worth discussing. After all, I don’t own any couture pieces, none of the dresses were made expressly for my body, taking into account all my little flaws. I haven't become best friends with anyone named Oscar or Georgio or Donatella and they aren't whipping up little concoctions for me to wear to the supermarket.

My grandmother on my mom’s side made clothing for the Sultan’s family and my father’s maternal grandmother’s mother made clothing for European royalty. So while the idea of having an entire wardrobe of custom made clothing is appealing, I really feel like I should be the one doing the construction. A couture wardrobe would be a badge of shame, a sign that I took the easy way out, that I purchased an item because I lacked sewing skills.

Also, I hate the whole exclusivity of the couture thing. I hate that there are certain handbags that one actually has to get on a list to buy and, basically, the manufacturer decides if you are important enough to actually get off the list and get the bag. This is a leather sack we are talking about people, not admission to college.

Another thing most truly fashionable people might find objectionable about my clothing is that almost all my clothes were purchased at thrift stores and resale shops. I know that shopping at thrift and vintage stores is supposed to be a sign of coolness which is why stores like Urban Outfitters exist (hey, look like you shopped in a thrift store but pay real store prices!) But I am usually too cheap to shop in real stores and I adore thrift stores. This is simply because I love the hunting aspect which thrift stores give to shopping, the sense of not knowing what I will find that day. And then there is the whole sense of accomplishment I feel when I find something at a reduced price. I have often considered something not worth buying if it is not on sale, because, let’s face it, money can be put to much better uses than clothing. When I see the prices of the clothing in photo spreads, I find myself thinking, “Do you know how much real estate a closet full of those clothes can buy?”

Anyway, better to spend the money on shoes and bags, if real estate is not an option. (If you can ever get off the wait list.)

Some people, the sorts of people who write books about simplifying your life, may suggest I own too much black, and I may agree with them, especially if I were to include the number of black skirts, pants, sweaters, shirts, and undergarments in the equation. I have too many clothes, too many dresses, and all the black is but a significant fraction of the larger problem. When looking at the whole of my closet, one isn’t overwhelmed by the amount of black, but by the sheer volume of clothing crammed into a very small space and the lack of organization. I am not one of those women with a separate, temperature controlled room for her garments (because no matter how much I may want one, whenever I see such things in other houses, I find myself imagining all the stuff other than clothing-computers, furniture, exercise equipment-which could be put into the room and the alternative uses to which the room could be put. In truth, I find closets to be a waste of space.)

I have fantasies of paring my wardrobe down, discarding all the extraneous material, all the items that will never again see the light of day. However, each bout of cleaning followed by donations to charity has little affect on the overall volume of clothing I own. In truth, I am unable to get rid of most of it. Each dress serves its own unique function. Each dress has its own special magic. Each dress has its own identity. Each one has been loyal to me (or has made promises of future loyalty which I believe) and I cannot discard it, even if I never have the opportunity to wear it again. I feel guilty just considering getting rid of certain pieces. Of course, this doesn’t apply to every dress. There are quite a few dresses I wouldn’t miss. There are quite a few dresses which I now wish I didn’t have. Unfortunately, once one becomes aware that they are keeping a collection, it becomes difficult to get rid of anything which may be part of the collection, even if the items in question have very little intrinsic value beyond their membership in the collection itself. How can I get rid of even one black dress when it is part of the larger collective?