You really can have too many clothes. In my second year of university I attempted to pack a small textile plants worth of t-shirts, jeans and what-if sweaters into my tiny, aging Montreal apartment. It was a disaster resulting in an eight month uninterrupted clothing-carpet wall to wall.
That summer when I headed West to Victoria B.C., Canadian travel restrictions kept my trousseau to a tidy 100lbs. I boiled the what-if collection down the basics and found enlightenment. I knew my wardrobe- the possibilities of each piece- inside and out. My apartment, style and life thrived on a well-ordered minimalism.
That summer when I headed West to Victoria B.C., Canadian travel restrictions kept my trousseau to a tidy 100lbs. I boiled the what-if collection down the basics and found enlightenment. I knew my wardrobe- the possibilities of each piece- inside and out. My apartment, style and life thrived on a well-ordered minimalism.
Now that I'm in Toronto, I'm still abiding by this less-is-more philosophy but my unruly clothes hoarding past still rears its head from time to time, namely in the form of my parent's begging me to get my garbage out of their closets.
This spring my father's significant other, the Dali lama of packing light, told me she was sending me a few things she thought I could use from home. In reality, the package consisted of wildly what-if things I had amassed and abandoned in my childhood room's closet. Sure, they're all cute enough: a floor length dress from Greece, a nautically striped zip-up, and office appropriate skirts, but I no longer have room for clothes that don't make the cut daily.
My challenge: reincarnate these misfits into wardrobe staples or send them on their buddha path.
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