When September arrives with its blue skies and warm sunny days, it stirs the inbuilt compulsion to spring clean not only the house but more so my wardrobe.
I know people who, regardless of commitments, attack the intricacies of spring cleaning immediately, and every spring I vow to join them.
But for me it’s not until October when sunbeams stream through my wide-open doors and I see dust floating in the sun’s rays on the furniture, ornaments and floors. But how is this so?
I am certain the dust wasn’t there last week but then, nor were the sun beams. Guilt forces my hand, and I am compelled to spring clean.
Out comes the dusters and polish. Shelves cleared, dusted, polished and ‘treasures’ returned.
It is amazing the difference this makes. Unfortunately, it shows up rest of the house, but coffee calls – the best excuse I can think of to ignore what I need to do – clean out my winter wardrobe and inspect my summer range.
If a wardrobe could nag I’d say mine does, especially now it’s warmer and I’ve shoved my winter clothing behind last summer’s collection, which in turn hides my favourite outfits.
The task looks overwhelming. Perhaps another coffee? But no, I’m determined and place my clothes in three piles, along with the shoes of various heel height that lie abandoned on the floor.
In today’s throw-away society my winter pile is quickly sorted, most into a recycle bag. Next, I choose my favourites, reminiscing at each outfit. This dress and jacket I wore to business meetings, and to dinner my blue silk camisole with black jeans and boots. I scrabble through my shoes, finding matching stilettos for a strappy dress, so chic with its long back-zip and body hugging fit.
I can’t resist. I have to relive the euphoria I had wearing this dress. I strip off my tracksuit and sneakers, wriggle my feet into matching stilettos and, sliding the dress over my head, my arms slip knowingly through the straps.
Stretching my arm back I eventually manage to grab the zip tag. There must be something wrong. The zip is refusing to budge.
I turn sidewards, glance over my shoulder into the wardrobe mirror; see the problem. A dress that no way will meet across my back and shoes my feet are already protesting about.
Reality hits. This is not the body I visualise but the body I have now. Older, with a mature spread, and feet that love low heels.
With a sigh I dress in my comfortable tracksuit and sneakers and gather all my old favourites to donate to charity.
There is still spring cleaning to be done, but coffee calls and the rest can be achieved another day.
