When I downsized, I limited myself to 21 inches of hanging clothes and what could fit in six small drawers.  Off-season clothes lived under my bed until a friend gifted me with an antique trunk.  But at any given time, I can boast about 30 hanging items, two drawers of delicates, and four drawers, 15 x 17, filled with neatly rolled slacks and shirts.  

In my traditional home, I started with a narrow closet on the first floor.  When I moved upstairs, I graduated to a walk-in cedar closet.  Eventually, I finished the attic and installed 30 feet of clothes rods and a full-size dresser.  I could find an outfit for almost any occasion.

But I’ve never been a clothes horse.

I can remember standing in my bedroom, facing the small chair in the corner where an impatient date sat jiggling his keys.  As I braided my hair, he glanced at me.  I saw his eyebrows lift.  He asked, “Is that what you’re planning to wear?”

I let me eyes fall downward, grazing my outfit.  “Yes.  . . ” I slowly admitted.  

“Do you have anything else,” he asked.

I turned and looked into my closet.  “I do,” I replied.  “But it pretty much all looks like this.”   I swung my hips a little, letting my dress swish against the fabric of my leggings.  My evening’s companion rose and pushed his keyring into his pocket.  He gestured toward the stairs, and downward we went.  For the rest of the evening, I studied the other women at the dinner party, straining to discern how their attire differed from mine.

My current wardrobe contains two pairs of merino wool pants (one navy, one black); five V-neck, short-sleeve merino tops (grey, blue, pale pink, green, and gold); two long-sleeve V-neck merino tops (teal and pink) and two merino Henleys (weirdly, both yellow); three pairs of merino leggings; and about six dresses of various weights that can be worn nearly year-round.  I have three summer sweaters, three heavy wool pull-overs, four jackets suitable for spring or fall, and  two winter coats.  Rounding out the collection is at least ten pairs of wool socks in two weights and the usual collection of unmentionables.  Stragglers drift in and out, given to me, found in thrift stores, or snagged from Poshmark and eventually donated away.

Chances are that if you see me in something today, you will see a version of it tomorrow.  Every piece fits the body that I currently have.  The colors harmonize.  Nothing swallows me, chafes at the waist, or shows too much skin.  Everything looks like everything else:  Soft, easy, and durable.  I wrap myself in the wool shawl that friends gave me, or the boiled wool fingertip jacket from my sister.  As the weather warms, I layer down or up depending on the climate both indoors and out.

And never, not in the morning, nor in the evening, nor at any time in between, does anybody ask me if I plan to leave the house in the garments with which I have covered myself.  

I love that for me.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®