Okay, here’s stoopidity for you. I routinely get rid of clothes and shoes with price tags still on them, brand new stuff, nice stuff. I decide it’s clutter and, bang, that’s that. It’s gone. I cling to the old, worn out, threadbare crap with a death grip, though.

A quick check turned up Levi’s with a 31″ waist and 34″, shoes in size 7 and 8 1/2. One winter coat is a petite — I’m too tall for a petite. The sleeves are too short and it’s tight through the shoulders, but it keeps me toasty in subzero temperatures. Another coat is the size of a pup tent, I could set up camp in there, sing Kumbaya and eat S’mores. T-shirts fit like dresses or a pressure bandage, one or the other.

Have I had a latent growth spurt? Or am I shrinking prematurely? Neither. I keep giving away the stuff that fits.

I’m attached to my ill-fitting fashion don’ts. They’re family, you know? At one time or another they offered me comfort or warmth or a safe place to hide and I love them. I won’t abandon them just because they’re old and worn out. I’m wearing a pale gray turtleneck speckled with bleach stains, the cuffs are fraying, and the tail refuses to stay tucked in, but I feel pampered by the softness. I don’t care if it’s seen better days. So have I. And I plan to be buried in it. Or cremated, whatever.

Stylish and trendy isn’t my goal. Comfort is. That’s what drives my fashion sense. I don’t want to be flashy or stand out; presentable and forgettable is my idea of snazzy. A former boss once described the look as ‘clean and ready for action.’ She was a doorknob in most respects, but the dorky description is spot on. I could run for a cab in any outfit I have. Well, I don’t wear heels, so even in a ball gown I could chase down a cab, I suppose.

As long as I don’t mind creating a scene and drawing attention to myself, which I do. I’m sure there are dark, deep-seated psychological impulses at work here, but let’s not look too closely. Let’s just nod and move along. Thank you.

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