A love letter to my pandemic-forsaken clothes

Beloved shoes, tops, boots, dresses....I miss you. Wait for me?

My dear, beloved, abandoned clothes (and shoes),

I just wanted to say: I’m sorry.

I wish more than anything that it could be the way it used to be: Me, browsing amongst you in my closet and dresser, looking for the right thing to wear for a dinner out, a client meeting or a casual get-together with friends. Holding you tenderly against my chest in front of the mirror, trying you on, finding the right jewelry to pair with you.

And yes, I know, though it pains me to admit it: sometimes tossing you hastily to the floor or kicking you off in a panic when I was running late and freaking out because I was having a fat day and nothing looked good. It was wrong of me to treat you in this way, and I am so, so sorry. Don't it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone? By which I mean: When—if—I have the chance to wear you again, I’ll be different, I swear.

Like you, filmy abstract floral blouse. I know I did you wrong at times. It’s just that with that pseudo-medieval / bohemian lace-up neckline thing and bold, colorful print, I would put you on sometimes and wonder if maybe you had a sort of court jester vibe happening. So I’d take you off and fling you aside then try on something else.

But sometimes I’d end up puting you back on and, for whatever reason, you looked suddenly fantastic. And if you made me look like a cross between the wallpaper in someone’s bathroom circa 1969 and an extra in the Safety Dance video, well, nobody ever said anything.

And you, leopard print pumps. Oh, my beloved, abandoned leopard print pumps!! When I bought you last February, I was so excited to wear you—you, my first animal print anything. I even posted a picture of you on Instagram, saying that when I saw you there on the shelf at DSW, I came to the realization that life is too short not to wear leopard-print pumps. (And it is! It is!) You were to usher in the start of a new, more devil-may-care phase in my sartorial life. My cougar phase, maybe. Except leopard.

But we only had one night together: One glorious night at an enormous party at a huge Chinese restaurant full of hundreds of people (what a notion!) where we ate incredible food (we meaning me and my husband, not you and me—I wouldn’t dare try to put food in or on you, oh adorable ones) and watched dragon dancers and musicians. I suppose if we could only have one night together, at least it was a memorable one. Wasn’t it?

But you—black ankle boots still nestled in your box, worn only once, for a matter of moments to make sure you fit—you and I never even had a chance. You were going to be my new go-to for client meetings, and for those occasions when I just needed a little something special to pair with jeans. (So many times I would have paired you with jeans!) Alas, I bought you in late February 2020. We were doomed from the start.

I never had a chance to wear you either, sparkly green top I got from a thrift shop in June. When I bought you, I thought, foolishly, that perhaps could wear you to a holiday party in December, when maybe things would be normal-ish again. Ha! Now, there you sit, unused (by me), a victim of my naïveté, still smelling vaguely thrift-shop-y, your $6.49 pricetag still piercing your collar. I’m so sorry. Until 2022, my sparkly friend.

I miss you too, stretchy, charcoal pants—one of the only things I actually kept out of three Stitch Fix attempts. I wore you to so many meetings. (I would have worn the new ankle boots with you! You would have become bffs!) I also recall wearing you to some of those thingys where you sit in rows of weird folding seats next to lots and lots of other people, with nobody wearing masks, and you look at things happening in front of you and make clapping noises at the end. What are those called again? It’s hazy now.

I’m sorry; I’m realizing as I write this that I’m perhaps not being adequately appreciative of the clothes I have continued to wear all this time. You who are probably, quite frankly, a little sick of me.

You know who you are: My T-shirts. My fleeces and comfy sweaters. My running clothes and yoga-video clothes. My hiking boots and sneakers and flip-flops and clogs. And you, my shoes and harness for the climbing gym—remember that day the gym re-opened in July and we were reunited? Was it good for you too?

And to you, my favorite well-worn, comfy jeans: Thank you being there for me. Some people may prefer sweatpants as their quarantine bottoms of choice, but I only have eyes for you. As for the hole that has appeared in your upper inseam, because I’ve loved/worn you so much, with my thighs in particular, apparently—I’m sorry. And I fear it may soon be over for us, because that hole is getting larger all the time, causing a draft in my nether-regions, and it’s not something that can be easily mended. But know that I will never forget you. Ever.

I must also express my most tender thanks to you, t-shirts I use as pajama tops. All….many, many, many of you. Pajama tops, I’m sorry for the way I keep sweating perimenopausally through you, night after night. It can’t be pleasant. So, thank you for your service. Truly. I love you. You’re very special.

Finally, you, slippers. Oh, slippers. I know our relationship has been an incredibly, let’s just say, close one this year. Perhaps too close sometimes. I would say maybe we should take some time apart, but the truth is, I don’t know how to quit you. At least not until summer.

To all of you who I haven’t mentioned—you, my forsaken cute tops and dresses and high-heeled sandals. You “nice” jeans and pretty much all of my jewelry. You, little black purse that I used to use on nights out, when hope was high and life worth living. I’m so sorry to have stayed away for so long. And I’m sorry that I may not be with you for a while yet.

Just please believe me when I tell you: It’s not you, it’s the pandemic.

Wait for me?