I realize this is going to come as a great shock to a lot of you, but I’m sort of a closet hoarder. In addition to a giant, walk-in indoor pantry that is bursting at the seams with consumables, I also have a giant, walk-in outdoor pantry that could sustain a family of four for a solid year, despite my
blatant lies suggestions to the contrary. *Some friends* call this one my Hoarder’s Pantry. These are the same friends who admit to my face that they’re not prepping for a zombie apocalypse themselves because they know they can just come to my house.
[Makes a note to move the hide-a-key.]
I come by my urge to stockpile honestly. My mom taught me at a young age that you are “out of” something when you’re down to only three backups. (On a recent pantry cleanse I found eleven–yes, eleven–jars of sundried tomatoes. Because running out of sundried tomatoes would be the end of life as we know it, apparently.) Naturally, this tendency has found its way into my clothes closet. You see, I did not buy a certain stretch-lace mermaid dress once. I BOUGHT IT TWICE.
You know, in case something happened to the first one.
To say that these dresses are a little bit delicate would be like saying water is slightly damp. If you look at the lace directly, it will fray. Touch it and it might fall apart in your fingers. The “backup” dress (or maybe it was the original?) is long gone; trashed; deemed utterly unwearable. But this one–the very last of two–I couldn’t bear to toss. “Maybe I’ll just wear it around the house,” I never once said but I’ll bet I thought it. You can see the little frizzies around the edge of the silhouette; the straps look stretched and tired.
If you need me, I’ll be in therapy. Also, shopping is my therapy.