Fashions Trend: Nordstrom. Target

Yesterday, emboldened by the suddenly warm weather, I decided embark on an epic quest to clean out my closet. One of the things I insisted on when we relocated here to Dallas was a walk-in closet in the master bedroom. As a former New Yorker raised in teeny tiny apartments, I've spent the majority of my post-adolescent life daydreaming of the Perfect Closet. As a result, my closet fantasies have grown increasingly intricate for a space some might consider insignificant (and by some, I mean men. Men whose footwear is limited to a pair of Chucks and scuffed black dress shoes. You know those men.)

My Perfect Closet is a spacious, airy room, flooded by daylight from floor-to-ceiling windows and antique chandeliers. Anchored by a pink quilted fainting couch, it features custom-designed closet rods designed to bear the considerable weight of maxi skirts, dresses, jeans and blazers. Perfect Closet also includes a generous array of padded, compartmentalized drawers to hold jewelry, lingerie, tights and socks. Rows and rows of shelves are dedicated to shoes, organized by color, heel height, and brand. Floor-length mirrors make it possible for me to know exactly what I look like without relying on my husband's opinion (which is always the same. "Uh, you look great...I mean hot...I mean thin. Yeah, that's it.") Perfect Closet comes fully equipped with an Italian seamstress and Italian-English interpreter for said seamstress. It would always be immaculate; it would always be organized; and it would always smell like clean laundry, suede, and Gucci Envy.

Basically, imagine Mariah Carey's closet, but with less glitter and butterflies.

Dream lover, come rescue me.

Naturally, the reality of my closet doesn't quite meet with the fantasy. Instead of custom-made shoe cabinets and padded drawers, it features haphazard mounds of rejected potential outfits, belts intertwined in a sexually suggestive manner, and twisted wayward hangers. However, it's a walk-in, and includes plenty of room for my ever-growing collection of vintage clothes and whatever intriguing crap I haul home from the Goodwill.

While struggling through Project Closet Purge yesterday, I couldn't help but notice that the size of my garments varied. Widely. One shirt was a XS; two skirts, one a size four and one an 8, shared a hanger; another top was a M. I recently learned that the majority of women have a minimum of three sizes in their wardrobe. What gives? I have a number of theories:

Weight fluctuations: We all have things we can't wear because they're too big or too small. Many of us own articles of clothing in "aspirational sizes" - items in smaller sizes we either used to wear, or own merely to emotionally flagellate ourselves into eating less and exercising more. I'm always reluctant to get rid of items that don't fit. It makes sense: I spent good money them! And I might even love that blouse/dress/pair of jeans! Having an emotional attachment to an item certainly makes it more challenging to part with. Furthermore, if your weight yo-yo's, there's a little voice in the back of your head whispering keep it, you might wear it again. And there's really no way to know if this voice is right.

Complex Proportions: Quite often (and this will simply shock you) our bodies refuse to conform to one size. Occasionally, and stop me if you've heard this, your top half and bottom half are different sizes. Large-busted and small-hipped; small on top and larger bottom; tiny waist and fuller hips; broad-shouldered and petite. Most clothes rarely account for such wide variations. Traditional sizing revolves around six different body types: round, inverted triangle, hourglass, pear, diamond, and straight. However, today's fashion industry has replaced the six different categories with two terms, “bottom-” or “top” heavy, with multiple combinations between each. A Google search regarding dressing for your body type revealed over eleven million pages. It's no wonder our closets hold so many sizes.

Standardized Sizing Is A Joke: This is ridiculous and not discussed enough. If you wear a Small T-shirt from the Gap, you'll need a Medium at Abercrombie & Fitch. If you wear a size two at Loft, you'll need a four or six at Urban Outfitters. Occasionally, even garments sold at the same store won't have congruent sizing. Take Target and Old Navy. I've bought the same style pants in different colors, all in the same size. One pair was too big, one too small, and one just right. There is no reasonable explanation for this. Nothing causes more cognitive dissonance for me than to know that my beloved faux leather bomber jacket from Target is an XL while the T-shirt I'm wearing under it is a small.

Vanity Sizing: According to Wikipedia, vanity sizing, also known as size inflation, is used to refer to the phenomenon of ready-to-wear clothing of the same nominal size becoming larger over time. So pants you purchase in stores today might be two to three sizes smaller than those you purchased five years ago, despite no change to your weight. Vanity sizing, as its name suggests, is designed to satisfy buyers' wishes to appear thin and feel better about themselves. However, in the end, you have no clue what size you really are.

Of course, it doesn't matter how many sizes you have. But I'm curious - have you struggled with sizing issues? Do emotional attachments make it difficult for you to get rid of things? Do you purchase clothes in aspirational sizes as a weight loss or fitness goal? What do you think about vanity sizing? Has it affected how you shop? And...just for fun...what does your dream closet look like?

Thrifted Target blazer; thrifted Romeo and Juliet Couture tee; thrifted vintage Ann Taylor silk skirt; Gap Outlet tights; Urban Outfitters 6x6 booties; Gap crossbody bag; Forever 21 bracelet; Betsey Johnson watch

Insomnia is a sneaky beast that creeps through your bedroom window one night, nests at the end of your bed, and does not budge without high doses of medication. It will change your brain chemistry, leading you to do things you never, ever would have done on a full night's sleep. Such as foggily putting in only one contact lens in the morning, leading you to freak the hell out out with the fear that you're going blind, and making you feel like a complete moron when you eventually realize you only have one contact lens in.

Insomnia will trick you into neglecting to buy the one thing you most needed at the supermarket. It will cause you to send your kids off to school without their lunch, forcing you to return sheepishly an hour later, lunch bags in tow. It will lead you to wear matchy-matchy outfits, coordinating your shoes to your eyeshadow to your shirt to your toenail polish (I have a thing against this. It just looks too...done.) Even worse, insomnia will transform you from a mildly mannered, happy, light-hearted person into a cranky, obstinate bitch. You'll watch yourself becoming short-tempered and obnoxious and feel powerless to do anything about it. You might flip people off at the drive-through, be snide towards your husband, or give evil side-eye to the perfect looking woman in her perfect outfit with her perfect little doe-eyed children and her Ken-doll perfect husband at the dry cleaners. You will burn with hatred and jealousy, betting that she gets a full eight hours of sleep, on a $10,000 hand-stitched Swiss mattress under a fluffy white down comforter while her adoring husband fans her gently with a palm leaf.

Insomnia will gift you with a lovely pair of heavy, blood-shot eyes. You will stumble around in a stupor similar to drunkenness, counting down the minutes until you can crawl into bed. And yet, when you finally do, you will inexplicably be wide-awake. You'll send anxious, desperate prayers to God praying for sleep, promising to go to church every Sunday, to stop swearing, to cease spending money on clothes and instead donate it to charity if you can just get some sleep. The more worried you get about sleeping, the less likely it becomes that you will actually sleep. Before you know it it's six am and you've only just begun to doze off.

So, here I am, in my matchy-matchy outfit, after three nights without sleep. Sure, I'm smiling. But deep down I'm already terrified I won't sleep that night. And I'm wondering what on God's green earth made me wear these boots, and forget to cut off the little white tag from my belt.