... including these royal blue ones that bought seven years ago when I was a Crayola crayon for Halloween. Yes, when I was 30.
I also still have this "Vote for Pedro" shirt that I wore when I was Napoleon Dynamite a Halloween or two before that. In fact, I wore it to paint my living room the other night.
I have more T-shirts sporting the logos of sports teams whose rosters I know only well enough to name a player. Or two. (Gifts from a hopeful sister Kate.)
I've got an army of thrift-store-scored pants with a flattering fit that's no longer in style waiting patiently for the day when they might look cool again. And a pair or two of skinny jeans wondering if I'm going to give up my red wine habit or grabbing almonds by the handful every time I walk through the kitchen (unlikely)—or just give them up to a grateful slightly smaller friend.
I've got too many flip-flops and more boots than I need. I have warm winter coats that I keep just in case someone comes to visit and they forget I live in Vermont. Socks with acorns on them. Fleece socks with acorns. Which I keep because they're comfy—and then wonder why I feel frumpy.
I donate clothing freely but can't seem to let go of some of the most ridiculous stuff. Can anyone explain this to me?