Just stuff out of my dresser drawers: the easy route. I breed t-shirts the way some people breed meat rabbits, and the sure way to the realization that truly they're not pets and I don't love them on a first-name anthropomorphized basis is to start pulling them out of my bottom drawer and looking at them. What I feel about them is not attachment so much as Really? Really? I could have gotten rid of this before, and I didn't? Because let us face the difficult truth together: the hand-me-down size-large stretched-out purple number that came to me in a clothes swap did nothing for me the first time I put it on and has continued to do nothing for me even as a shirt to sleep or clean the house in (or clean the house in my sleep in, for that matter). And the totally cute shirt in just the right shade of blue, which I bought at T.J. Maxx for $2? No, really. It's tight and cut too low, and I never felt any less exposed in it, no matter how many times I put it on and tried to psych myself up to leave the house.
I also pitched a couple of sweaters (again: really?) plus two or three skirts, since I had them doubled up on the clippy hangers, which was ridiculous and inconvenient, and two dresses that have never looked good on me, no matter how much I altered them in imagination between attempts at wearing them.
So, a death-to-delusions kind of garbage-bag day here. Meanwhile, the trunk of my car is beginning to be conspicuously weighed down with all this cargo of symbolic sin. Confronting it and getting it out of the house is only step one in this process. Until I pull up my big-girl whatevers and take it all somewhere and get rid of it, I haven't actually let go of it. I'm still toying with Confession. I mean, if we want to make this all allegorical, which apparently we do. Or to put it another way, I've cut back on the sloth a little, but have not yet exactly gone cold-turkey. Because there it is, and here I sit. Comfortably, oh so comfortably.