Despite the serious pruning that’s been going on in my closet, I still have at least ten pairs of jeans that I like and wear regularly and probably twice as many skirts. Bottoms are never a problem for me, which I’m told is yet another thing that makes me weird PUT IT ON THE LIST, OKAY? I will go shopping with my BFF, and make her promise me that she won’t let me buy anything that’s not a top.

“Fine,” she lies.

Then I’ll trot off to the fitting room with thirteen different garments that are all meant to be worn below the belt probably.

“But I thought–” she tries.

“Oh my God, I’m just trying them on,” I tell her. “Relax.”

(Don’t you wish you were my BFF?)

And I’ll be damned if I don’t love twelve of them.

“Ooh, those are cute,” BFF admits. “But I thought–”

“OH MY GOD I’M ONLY BUYING THE THREE. I’m putting the other nine back!”

“Well, that’s good then,” she says, because she’s my BFF.

But tops, notsomuch. I’ll try on twelve and hate all twelve. Which is why on the very rare lunar eclipse when I do find one I like, I either buy it in five different colors, buy two or more of the same color, or hang onto them for a decade or more.

My friend Barb–of the scented house/tramp stamp fame–gave this one to me, I’m going to guess sixteen years ago. (For reference, Shrek came out sixteen years ago, and who can even imagine the pre-Shrek world anymore?) It was definitely before I had kids, and I’ll be honest: I couldn’t believe that anybody would ever part with a sweater as fine and fabulous as this one. It was soft, didn’t contain an ounce of wool (a near-miracle in the cute-sweater department FYI), and it fell smack in the epicenter of the Perfect Top Length Window (it’s a thing).

I tried to hide my enthusiasm, fearful that if I shouted OH MY GOD THIS IS THE BRADLEY COOPER OF SWEATERS AND YOU’RE GETTING RID OF IT? she might change her mind.

I wore this sweater happily for many, many years. It’s faded and sad and slightly misshapen for all of that good love it’s gotten. And now–since I haven’t worn it in at least six years–it’s time to say goodbye. 

Do other people really not have any problem doing this purging thing? The mind boggles.