Hi, my name is Joyce and I’m a Clothes Horse.

(Hi Joyce)

My problem all began when my mom started dressing me in my BROTHER’S hand me downs in 5th grade. That’s right; you read that right. My BROTHER’S hand me downs. Sure, I had an older sister but she was only 4’9” tall and I sprouted early and by 8th grade I was almost 5’8” tall (most of the boys were 5’4”). If you’re the doing the math, that meant I was also taller than my brother.

Now it’s bad enough being the “new kid” but when the school year has already started, there’s just no way you can blend in! You stick out, and there I was in my brother’s old clothes. His legs were shorter than mine, so “hey where’s the flood” became my new nickname.

Are you there, God? It’s me Joyce.

When you start at a new school, especially on the brink of puberty, fitting in, wearing the right clothes, and getting the right kind of attention (she’s pretty/funny/cool) are all crucial for your future success in the dog-eat-dog world of middle school.

I get it, my parents had no money, certainly no “extra” money for things like bell bottoms or a new pair of saddle shoes. Annually, each of us five kids got one new outfit for Christmas and one new outfit for the start of school. (cue “The Waltons” music) Anything else we would have to buy for ourselves.

Having my own money was the key.

So, as early as I could, I started getting odd jobs around town. By 13, I ran a teenage empire – I mowed lawns, babysat, detasseled corn and had a paper route. At 16 I opened a checking account and had a crew working the fields in the summer for me. Disposable income meant cooler clothes.

After high school when I entered the working world, I learned about fabrics, cuts, labels. As I became more successful financially, I bought nicer things. I expanded my taste and my style. I now have accumulated a closet FULL of lovely clothes and shoes and boots and belts and bags. And truthfully, some of them I have never worn. Others I have worn once and then decided I didn’t like them. Still others were favorites but after so many trips to the dry cleaner or the laundry machines have stretched or shrunk (or I grew) or pilled to the point that they are no longer in the rotation.

However, at sixty, I now realize that all these clothes haven’t healed the wounded 11-year-old in me who had to go to school in her brother’s clothes. If anything, they’ve been hiding her. So I’ve made the very mature decision to clean house. And by “made the decision” I mean that I plan to, at some point, start working on clearing out my closet a little.

Stay tuned.