I ran into no fewer than twenty people I know at our newly renovated local dive bar this weekend. (FYI it’s still divey, but they replaced the stripper pole with corn hole so now we can bring the kids!) It was a perfect, sunny, 77-degree day and as you can imagine, the place was packed.

“Your blog is totally inspiring me,” one friend said by way of a greeting. “In fact, I put on a top today to come here but I didn’t like it. Normally I would have just hung it back up, but I was like ‘if I’m not going to wear it today, I’m not going to wear it ever,’ so I tossed it!”

She was beaming. Radiant, I tell you. I felt pretty good myself.

When I got home, I counted the items of clothing currently hanging in my closet that still have the tags on them.

Any guesses? 

TWENTY-TWO.

Twenty-two times I opened my wallet, pulled out some money and threw it into the garbage disposal traded it for some worthless garment. Like this dress.

The funniest thing about this whole closet-cleanout business has been the variety of reactions I get from you, my awesome, opinionated, outspoken readers. There are the things I actually don’t think are that bad that you respond to with strings of gag-puke emojis; and others that I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in that you’re like “Oooh! Keep that one!” So I legit don’t know what you’re going to say about it.

Beyond the fact that it’s strapless, and it has this yummy, buttery inner lining that just feels like you’re wrapped in a giant fabric hug but not in a creepy way, I’m not sure why I ever bought this dress. I don’t like the drapey, foldy fabric action on the body, and I’m almost positive the Gunne Sax dress I wore to my junior prom had the identical twin-peaked sweetheart neckline that I basically can’t stand. (Also if you’re anywhere around my age, the mere mention of Gunne Sax probably just sent you into a memory-spiral of John Hughes movies; you’re welcome.)

Anyhow, because I’m old and genuinely can’t recall when or where I bought this, I’m trying to imagine what transpired that magical day.

[slips into fitting room, probably at Anthropologie, arms laden with possibilities; strips naked and tries not to make eye-mirror contact; quickly tries on flowy “cold shoulder” top everyone else is wearing; looks like a pregnant, aging hippie.]

Me: “What in the actual hell?”

[rips off top and tries on high-waisted jeans everyone else is wearing.]

Me: “Mom, can you move I can’t see myself in the mirro–OMFG THAT’S ME.”

[rips off jeans and tries on off-the-shoulder top everyone else is wearing.]

Me: “This is cute… unless you, oh I don’t know, actually have to use your arms. SERIOUSLY. WHO THE FUCK MAKES CLOTHES YOU CAN’T USE YOUR ARMS IN?”

Flawless sixteen-year-old salesgirl: “Um, ma’am? Is everything okay in there?”

Me: “I’m FINE Madison, thank you for asking.” 

[flips off Madison behind door; rips off ridiculous off-the-shoulder top and slips into black strapless, drapey sweetheart dress.]

Me: “Well, this is… not that bad. I mean, it’s a little black dress. You really can’t have too many of those, right? Besides, I can lift my arms in it and everything!”

Like I said, I can’t be sure but I can certainly picture that happening.

Bottom line is, I’m never wearing it. Maybe someone else will; maybe they won’t. As we say around here, that’s so NMP.

XO
Jenna