The #Struggle Of Trying To Throw Out Clothes When You're A Hoarder
The Debrief: Do you get sweaty palms and palpitations every time you have to chuck something out? Yep us too.
One time my friend Grace told me, in all seriousness, that one day in many years, I would be that person who lived in a rabbit warren of tunnels made from my own stuff in my own house because I just couldn’t bear to throw anything out. Grace has got about 32 coats but, you know, whatever, I’m the hoarder.
The trouble with being a hoarder in today’s diabolical living situations is that there’s simply no room to take up hoarding as a full-time hobby. Four bedrooms, five housemates and one small cupboard under the stairs? You’ve barely got enough room for a bed. Let alone your moth-eaten jumper collection from that year you worked in a vintage store.
And so, I had to learn to start throwing things out, under duress from my housemates. Apparently, using the house’s one tiny landing as ‘an extra wardrobe’ kind of cramped their style. Which seems fair. Although the added aggro when I put it off for yet another month made my impending task a little daunting fucking terrifying. Here’s what I found out.
You’ll impress yourself with your hoarding skills
Like, if there was a hoarding Olympics I could definitely qualify and come at least fourth. Behind Russia, China and America who always win everything anyways (topical joke there). But seriously, I had a pair of knickers from when I was in Year 7. That was like 15 years ago.
Not only am I impressed with myself for keeping something for such a long time without losing it, I’m also impressed with the quality of cotton products from yesteryear. Pants I’ve bought in recent times last about three wears before giving up the ghost under my ever-expanding ass. Top work M&S of the year 2000, top work.
You’ll feel a little sick at how much money you’ve spent over the years
Because once you start adding things up: £20 for that top, £30 for those jeans, £15 for that top that’s still got the tag on it (retch) you’ll realise that had you been a little more refined when it came to your shopping habits, you could have bought a three bedroom house in Neasden by now. And a dog. And a round-the-world trip with a month’s layover in each of the world’s most expensive cities.
Mate. Chuck it all, give it to charity and head to your nearest Buddhist temple to cleanse yourself of your horrible consumerist practices.
Just because you bag stuff up, doesn’t mean it disappears
A fun trick I like to play on myself is to turn out all my clothes, chuck them in bin bags and then leave the bin bags in the hallway for the rest of my life.
See, what I’ve done there is get out of throwing stuff out on a technicality. The objects in question are out of my wardrobe and out of my chest of drawers, but I haven’t actually allowed them to leave the house. Which means I don’t have to deal with the crushing anxiety of having my fancy dress costume from 2008 (nu-raver since you ask) ripped away from me.
Your flatmates will hate you all the harder and your house will start looking like a second home for Stig of the Dump, but your wardrobe will look FAB.
You can talk yourself into anything
If you wanted to sabotage your life, you could easily do it. Turns out Outer You is just a giant pawn in Inner You’s game of life and can be convinced to do anything, no matter how little logic lies in it. Think about the lies Inner You has told Outer You when it comes to getting out of bed: ‘Oh work won’t mind if you’re two hours late’ and ‘Yep, no really, people applaud your cockiness when you show up after lunch’.
When it comes to chucking out clothes, Inner Me has managed to convince Outer Me not to throw things out for the following terrible and erronous reasons: a) I will fix the holes in the bottom of my sock one day with a real needle and thread; b) One day I will fit back into that halterneck that’s still got squash stains on it from the Year 8 disco and c) Acid wash is in.
You’ll make mistakes
I still mourn for the pair of high-waisted flared jeans I declared were ‘lame’ and kicked to the kerb along with a bunch of sweaty old T-shirts and odd socks. Ain’t no getting those bad boys back. Couldn’t have thrown away the Von Dutch trucker cap instead, could I now?
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