My closet.

My closet is organized by color with sweaters on top and shoes down below. Most of the clothes in my closet were carefully selected, scrutinized and tried-on at the store. A few items were rash purchases, thrown into a cart or grabbed while walking by in search of something else because the price was right and the whatever-it-was seemed cute on the hanger at a glance.

This morning I stood in front of my closet, looking left to right like I was reading a magazine article. I started first at green, then flicked through purple, pink, red, blue, orange, brown, white, ending with black. I laid my eyes on and touched dozens of shirts appropriate for every temperature, pants – plaids and plains, skirts – short and long, jackets – indoor and out.

I have worn half of these clothes, it seems, like a million times. The other half never leave their space on the rack, hanging there like little corpses of styles-gone-by. All have been washed and rewashed over and over and have been paired in a thousand combinations for every imaginable occasion.

This morning I stared at my closet organized by color, those living items hanging among the dead, and decided that I had absolutely nothing to wear.