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Fashion
July 02, 2016

A Fashionista On Her Love-Hate Relationship With Her Wardrobe

Text by Nisha Jhangiani

The dichotomy of the female species turns us into vociferous monogamists and fickle paramours alike….

Life, and life partners so far (real and material), have joined me on this constantly spinning loop where I’m acquiring, discarding, and, on the rare occasion, recycling. The long-term, tempestuous equation I have shared with my wardrobe has involved messy fights, teary makeups, tough negotiations; all in all, a heady rollercoaster ride.

Even as I’m boxing cartons labelled for giveaways, my mind is clocking on to shopbop.com, mentally calculating the purchases that need to be urgently executed to assuage the separation anxiety caused by my impulsive frenzy to declutter (we’re talking about clothes now, not men).

The guilt at being such a spendthrift is nowadays being overshadowed by the realisation that I may have commitment issues. I’ve resolved to address this roadblock and to revisit the doctrine of engagement I share with my closet. The amended terms could possibly read as below:

1. I take you, ‘Loeffler Randall silver flat sandals’ to be my sole companion from this day forward, till rigorous stomping through stores wears you out and does us part. Following which, I solemnly swear to keep your memory alive in my heart.

2. With this ring (a large padded cloth ring, that is), I take thee, Gucci fur, and cashmere stole, to swing through loose and free in unabashed glory, liberated from the confines of the airtight container you were squashed into so far. I promise to dangle a soft-scented lavender pouch beside you as further validation of my ability to provide immense TLC and nurture a relationship to its utmost potential.

3. I vow to be true to you, Farah Khan gold and evil-eye hand harness, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. When your microscopic hook fails to fasten despite all my physical and vocal cajoling, I will not, repeat, will not fling you to the floor in distraught frustration. Instead, you will be carefully packaged and taken to the emergency help section (read as: anyone able to secure the damned bracelet on me) and I will aggressively pursue a cure for my increasing hyperopia.

I’m hoping that these sincere efforts will rekindle the excitement I once shared with my style essentials. This does not imply immunity towards toxic bonds though; if that bikini is hell-bent on not stretching even an inch further, then I can be equally resolute in my determination to scour a new beach companion from Victoria’s Secret pronto. Maybe a fresh romance is really what I need.

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