One-third. I caught this statistic during a daytime talk show featuring a well-regarded health expert. So it has to be true, right? With this number in mind—and the realization that I might be living in that uncomfortable one-third—I can’t believe I decided to tackle the chaos that is my closet, a shrine to the beloved fashion of the ’80s and ’90s.
But therein lies the issue with that one-third statistic.
My Body Keeps Evolving
I suspect I’m in the beginning stages of menopause, known as perimenopause, which means my body is throwing me some curveballs. Changes are happening everywhere—things are shifting, expanding, and contracting in ways I never anticipated. This became painfully clear during my “Jean Purge”: I had everything from the “skinny” size to ones best labeled “I’m just giving up.”
I distinctly remember buying those skinny jeans. From the shop assistant bringing me smaller sizes, high-fiving me as I realized my true size was smaller than I thought, to the moment I almost fainted at the register when I saw the total—those memories play in my mind like a film reel. I even made a silent promise: I would never let these jeans go to waste.
Yet here I was, somewhere in the early stages of menopause, wrestling with whether it was time to part with those jeans—or perhaps, to let go of the dream of fitting into them again. With a heavy heart, I placed them in the donation pile.
I’m Not That Girl Anymore
Frustrated with the jean dilemma, I moved on to my collection of quirky shirts, like that pink Harley-Davidson tank top that once flattered me perfectly. Time has had its way, however, and those “right places” have shifted in all the wrong directions. Into the giveaway pile it went, accompanied by another sigh.
Then there was my treasured concert T-shirt. It still fit, but the message didn’t suit my current life: “I Heart This Bar.” Sure, it was great at a Toby Keith concert, but it just doesn’t work for the office, church, or even a PTA meeting. Another item for the donation pile.
Breaking the cycle of this sobering task, my husband chimed in, “Wow, that’s a hefty giveaway pile! Good job, honey. You must feel amazing!”
Tears welled in my eyes as I contemplated the stylish pumps I was about to toss into the abyss of lost dreams.
They Just Don’t Get It
According to the fitness tracker, my husband hasn’t fluctuated in weight for five years. Five years! He still wears clothes from an era when A Flock of Seagulls was in their prime. While he has a few gray hairs, he hasn’t experienced the bewilderment of a hot flash or the frustration of unexpected weight gain. He wasn’t putting aside the person he used to be—or the aspirations he once had.
I explained how this whole process felt disheartening rather than liberating. He tried to understand but stumbled over his words, ultimately deciding that silence was the better option. “Do you think you’ll ever fit into those clothes again?” he ventured.
I shot him a look that could only be described as a pre-tantrum moment of perimenopausal frustration. He quickly made himself scarce, leaving me to my thoughts.
No epiphany about embracing my body came to me that day. Maybe it will arrive in the later stages of this one-third of menopause we all go through.