Keep It Simple, Silly

I’m on Mission GROJ316 (aka getting rid of junk for the 316th time). When you’re moving home as I am, anything unworn but kept aside for that one fine day since 1997 has to go.

Clearing out can be so cathartic in some sense. I find life greatly simplified after just knocking out six gold eyeshadows in variations of glitter, gel, light gold, bronze-gold, powder and stick, as well as four versions of coral blush, all cream-based and, to the naked eye, all the exact same shade. But I’m hanging on to the 10 nude glosses.

Then come the jeans, that intrinsic staple in any wardrobe. I veto acid washes as well as a sizeable pile of skinnies and jeggings…only indigo boot-cuts will do moving forward. Not that I wear those either; I’m into palazzos and silk trousers nowadays, but one never knows when one will have a moment where only the jeans-and-white-shirt combo will cut it.

Which brings me to the latter and this lot is non-negotiable. Off-shoulder, button-down, asymmetrical, camisole-style; stark white, eggshell, ivory, white with a hint of grey, white with a hint of lemon — anything that I can categorise as a white shirt or blouson must be draped on a satin hanger and delicately placed centre stage on the rack in the walk-in closet.

And so the cycle goes. Pumps out, loafers in. Clutches a no-no, sling cross-body bags, a resounding yes. Business-like blazers — yuck, custom-made gold gota jacket — now this should be classified as an all-time must-have. All belts to go. All Pashminas and jewels to stay. I feel like Mistress of the Fashion Universe.

My mother is usually the beneficiary of most items whose exit strategy has been planned from my cupboards — I sometimes wonder whether things are ever actually thrown out or if, like in some divine vicious cycle, they just totter between daughter and parent. Today, Mummy is being presented with a fine selection of eyewear; round, square and aviator shades in dazzling reflector hues — that we both know she will not wear but will hold on to — just in case.

And then, this woman who defined so much of my thought process, opens her own Pandora’s box. Eight dinner sets, pristine, untouched. Porcelain, silver, white metal — I can take my pick of the litter. I’m blown away by the realisation that my obsession to accumulate is hereditary; I was born into this habit, hence I cannot take sole responsibility for the aftermath of excess it generates every two years.

I head back to my abode, having convinced Mum and myself that only a freshly bought collection of dinner plates will suffice for me. Somehow, the idea of buying something new has created incredible clarity on what more ‘old’ I can get rid of. What goes around comes around. If I hoard, I must dispose. Then, I must stock up again. Balance is key. And I’m totally committed to the cause.