This weekend I have been coping with weird feelings. Nesting feelings, if you will. Without the whole fetus mess, obviously.
I can make that statement confidentially because I bought one of those at-home doppler things my last pregnancy, and I use it occasionally when I think I have a tapeworm.
Last Friday I had a sudden urge to tackle my dumpster of a closet, so I pulled it out. No heartbeat, only the sound of wine sloshing around.
My closet is a pit, and Andy has been on me for months to go through it. As fate would have it, I recently stumbled across a concept called the family closet, which is essentially one giant closet that you put everyone’s shit in. At first, that sounded a little too compound sister wifey.
And here’s our family closet, that shelf over there is all our homemade denim pants, this rack over here holds our swimming dresses and worship bonnets…
But then, I actually thought about it. I have a two story house, and right now the upstairs is sweltering, so much so, that our kids often camp out on our floor or in our downstairs guest room. I could tell you that the low point of my day is hiking my ass up there to get clothes for them, but that would be assuming I put clothes away, and not, say, leave them in a giant laundry pile on my bed.
Suddenly, the concept of having one closet that I can just stand in the middle of and put everyone’s crap away sounded pretty awesome. I thought Andy would be all, that’s weird, but then I remembered he gets ready in the dark and doesn’t even know how to work the washing machine. You don’t get a say, Andy.
Now, part of me really likes having my own big closet. I remember our first walk through of the house, I squealed seeing how large our walk in closet was, because I’m a girl, and Sex in the City still exists on TBS, so this is all supposed to be a very big deal. Three years later and it’s less a showcase of my belongings, and more the place I shift the giant pile of laundry to when I need to sleep on my bed or have people coming over, and since it’s also the only other non-bathroom room downstairs that locks, I have sex in there sometimes, as well.
Our closet basically consisted of one long bar on each side, one for Andy and one for me. I also shoved a dresser in there, because I was running out of room in our bedroom dressers. This is because I’m a firm believer that the top two drawers of a dresser aren’t for clothes, but rather, one for sex toys, and the other for knick knacks. We use our closet dresser, which is just a short cheap one we picked up on clearance at Target, for our under things and swim suits. So yeah, two bars, one shoddy dresser, and piles of clean clothes that I may or may not have had intercourse on, not exactly a dream closet.
I went to Lowes to get closet stuff, which they had a whole aisle of, and I actually had to make two trips because the first time I went without Andy, and basically just bought stuff that looked cute, not items based on, say, measurements or the ability to physically attach things to the wall.
It was really important to me to tackle this by myself. I have absolutely no idea why… ok no wait I do.
I’m usually really, really good about purging. I do it with kid’s toys, Andy’s college furniture, bills I’m tired of looking at, and overall, my clothes. But, I have this one pair of jeans, I’ve had them since college. They are Old Navy flare jeans, size 16, but that was back in 2000 when they weren’t spandex’ing the fuck out of pants, and sizing was totally different, so really, they would be like a size 8 in today sizes.
I haven’t been able to wear these jeans since before I got married, and if we’re being honest, they are a really light stonewash that goes against everything I currently believe in, but I am emotionally attached to these pants because I remember being really happy in them. I wore these jeans to every concert I saw the summer of 2000, from Harry Connick Jr. to Lynryd Skynyrd, and in my head, I looked sexy as hell in them. I was in love in them. I was young in them. I was drunk often in them, but not slopping drunk, adorable girl drunk.
Every so often, I pull the jeans from the pile, lock the bathroom door and try to put them on. They get about to my knees, I get depressed, and then spend the rest of the day moping around, eating like I’m ovulating 8 eggs at a time. Andy knows when I try them on, because I’m crying intermittently and the bag of Trader Joe’s Chocolate Covered Potato Chips are gone.
It’s been over a year since I have tried to put those jeans on, and I needed to grow the fuck up and part with them, I just had to psych myself up first. I spent a few hours throwing Andy’s old Hollister shirts in a trash bag, until I felt ready to tackle my side.
I have a flabby stomach and fat thighs, these jeans will never fit me again, and if I have to choose between being skinny and wearing those pants, or riddled with stretchmarks making a family closet, I choose family closet. I choose stretchy pants and tacos and kids and tacos and all the squishy parts Andy has no qualms grabbing onto.
You have no power here, jeans.
Boom, in the bag.
I spent two days making my version of the family closet. Hanging shelves and rods and using things like drills and levels and stud finders, which, might I add, never got less funny when I pointed it at Andy’s crotch and made it beep, actually, the fact that our lawyer was here doing our will made it even funnier.
I pulled all the clothes my kids wear on the daily and put them in the closet, leaving their non-everyday wear upstairs in their rooms. I hung their shirts and dresses, and put their shorts, pj’s and underwear in a laundry basket on the floor for easy access.
It’s not finished yet, I have a few cute baskets to attach, and that dumb pile of laundry on my bed to put away, but we finally have our very own 8×7 foot creepy family closet. Everything I need to function is now available at my air conditioned finger tips.
The downside being I basically have no more excuses for not putting away their laundry. Except for this here hangnail. It totally hurts, you guys.