I sit in the sweltering heat with the closet doors flung open and the contents sprawled all around me.
My impulse to rage clean has completely disregarded the fact that I’m working in the hottest room of the house that has the least natural air flow and the smallest fan.
The measly little breath of air it blows my way is pathetically impotent — rather like being breathed on by a cow — and has no effect on the sweat beading my face and plastering my shirt to my body.
But it had to be done.
And it had to be now.
(Though this gives me pause to question my sanity.)
For months I’ve been cleaning out old clothes that my daughter has outgrown, that are too tattered to be worn without child services being notified, or ones that predate her entirely.
As I’m pulling out the clothes that I once wore daily, I feel like I’m rifling through the life of a complete stranger.
I grab dress after dress, inspect and fold them into one of the plastic bags in preparation for being taken to the recycling centre for a new life with someone else.
Earlier in the year I thought I’d be brave and take the lot to a self-service second hand shop, but now I’ve had it, and I’m sitting on the floor like a homeless person with everything I own sorted into bags.
My idea of dropping the stuff off in little trickles to the recycling centre has completely and utterly failed.
Instead the neatly sorted and organised bags have made a home at the bottom of my closet.
And like a colony of invading gnomes, they’ve built upward as the colony grew, and now I can’t take things in or out any more without dealing with the last few too-small, too-pre-pregnancy things thrown in during yet another fit of exasperation.
I can’t help but wonder, “Who did I think I was?” as I pull out one office-worthy dress after another.
When did I ever have the time to wear all these?
When did I ever have time to buy all this stuff?
And when did I think this was all necessary?
I mean they’re nice and all, but they aren’t really me.
Or not any more.
Because these days I’ve traded in looking pretty for feeling comfortable.
Since accepting the fact that I’m not young and skinny any more — and that it’s pointless to compare my current self to that past self — I’ve opened up a whole horizon of permission within myself, to simply be how I am and not feel ashamed of it or try to hide the obvious.
Certainly, after I’m done with this hamam-induced sorting experience and my rage clean has been fully satiated, I’m going to enjoy a nice, cold ice mocha and not think twice about chewing down on the egg rolls from last night.
I guarantee you, I will have earned it.
Just like I’ve earned the right to not give a toss about fitting into anybody else’s idea of how I should look in order to be acceptable or worthy in society’s eyes.
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“When Sasha Barrett gets bitten by a snake on a mission, her squad captain’s quick actions not only save her life, but also make her realise something she may have known all along…“
