The Other Side of the Closet

Twice now I have purged my closet, tossing now-outgrown articles of clothing into the largest tupperware bin I could dig up. As of last week, I had to dig up a second tupperware, which is now almost full. At that point, I felt confident that the smattering of sweaters with generous give and handful of roomy long-sleeved shirts would cover me, literally, for the next month or so. But then I took out the pink cable-knit sweater.

I used to consider this sweater a classic stand-by of frumpy-comfort. It was soft and roomy, and the sleeves were long so I could pull them over my hands to keep them warm. But when I struggled into it last Friday, it was a different sweater. I had paired it with a new pair of knit maternity pants, which exchanged comfort for fashion. Let's just say that between the lines of my underwear showing through and my bigger butt taking advantage of it's stretching capability, these pants were made for pairing with a longer top. Technically, the sweater still fit, but stopped short of what anyone would desire to see.

My husband was getting ready beside me in the bathroom as I frowned in the mirror. This is not an uncommon scene these days, me looking in the mirror, pouting and mumbling something resembling the whine of an overdramatic and hopeless teenager. Then I look to my husband who says something wonderful, something about me looking beautiful, something about how much he loves having me for a wife, and I can proceed with my day. But today I just couldn't get over the pink sweater. I asked my husband, "should I just change?" Now, I know that this is a cruel thing for me to ask. There is no right way for Michael to answer. He has two options: he can lie and give me an unnecessary ego boost, or he can be honest and save me from committing fashion crime.

He chose honesty, very gently. Taking his time, (good move on his part- I doubt he really needed to consider his answer for very long, but the effect was nice), he cocked his head to the side and said in the highest of pitches, "yyyyeah, I think I would." I had two options. Start railing and crying, telling him that he's supposed to just lie and say that I look good. Or appreciate the honest answer and move forward. I chose a little of both. As I peeled off the once safely-frumpy sweater and threw it into the second tupperware, I crossed my arms in near-tantrum mode. (I need to remember hormonal moments like this when my baby grows into his own tantrum stages. Sometimes you just need to be mad.)

In an encouraging tone, Michael sweetly suggested the inevitable: "why don't we see if there's anything of mine that you'd like to wear." Don't get me wrong, Michael is a nice dresser, and I like what's hanging on the left side of the closet. But this was a turning point. I just lost a bit of my sense of being a woman. "No," "no," "no," I declared, arms still crossed as Michael held up shirt after shirt. I was really saying "no" to my loss of ability to wear something every day that made me feel good, somewhat pretty, or put-together.

I eventually consented, with a frown still on my face, to a light-brown sweater which covered what it was supposed to, Truth be told, it was comfortable. As I made peace with going to the other side of the closet that day, I began to realize something great thing about wearing Michael's clothes. I get to feel even closer to him throughout the day. So when my self-esteem is threatened, my ankles swell, and my day gets too long, I think of him saying something wonderful, something about me looking beautiful, something about how much he loves having me for a wife, and I can proceed with my day.