It was about five years ago that I gave my wardrobe a complete makeover. I looked at it hung up neatly on its rail — organized by color, of course — and thought to myself, “None of this belongs to the person I am today or the person I want to be tomorrow.”
I pulled everything down and ripped the garments from their hangers. One by one, I tried each item on, down to the last blouse. For everything I tried on, I would stand in front of the mirror and not gauge how the item fit but how I felt in it.
Some dresses made me feel childish, while a skirt I once loved felt much too girly. I picked through the pile of polyester and cotton until I was left with about 20 pieces. My once dazzling closet filled to the brim with shades of maroon, mint and mustard had been reduced to just three colors: Black, gray and white.
