Tag Archives: clothing

Armor, costume, mirror?

I got rid of most of my suits when I stopped being a lawyer.  First, I’d lost so much weight they didn’t fit anymore, but second– I didn’t want to be that person, whoever she was, any longer. I knew I wouldn’t go back.  There was no point in hanging on to the accoutrements to that profession, not once I knew I was done.

I got rid of more clothes when I left my husband– more on the “I haven’t worn this in a while/it no longer fits” basis, at least, that’s what I think I did (mostly).  I did just shove my wedding dress deep into a rubbermaid box, with a “No,  nope, not going to deal with it now.”  I’ve left it there, still.

I bought a corset and an antique kimono not long after, and while I don’t wear them, often, they’re aspirational clothes.  I’ll wear them, someday.

I have a few sexy or form-fitting clothes I wore from before that I’ve kept, that I’ve worn, that I’ve been admired in, and I have no qualms about wearing them.  Still.  There’s no baggage attached to them, ha ha.

Now, though, I’m unpacking spring’s clothes and I’ve got these two pair of silky pajamas, ones that for whatever reason I’ve come to associate with my husband– or with the absence of him, while we were married, in bed, in his not coming to bed at the same time as me, in our sex life and lack of as our marriage progressed.  I don’t know why I associate those particular items with him, because I think I actually owned them before we got together– but the fact is, I do.  I associate them and their silky feeling with– the feeling, whether he meant to convey it or not, of me being the only person touching myself, or of him admiring their feel and nothing more.  That I, under the clothes, was not admirable.  Touch-worthy.

I can’t decide now if I want to go to the bother of reclaiming the clothing (and what’s underneath?).  Someone else won’t recall the same taint, and my flannels (not associated with him, though bought at his urging, isn’t memory strange?), put away until next fall, can leave me head-room for cotton tshirts and shorts, room for me in my own skin until something else, something new comes along– even if it’s just me, figuring out a different different costume– one that mirrors what I want to feel, not what I think I’m reflecting from somebody else.