Personal

Tea Breaks: Excuse my mess!

Tea Breaks is an ongoing experiment of sorts, in an attempt to fit in a bit of the going-ons in my life. So every Monday, I talk a little bit about what happened last week, and occasionally a little bit about my own plans!

This past week has been “crunch time” for me. No, I don’t have any mid-terms, but given the number of assignments our teachers have given us, it almost feels like it. At the time of writing, I’ve submitted three, and still have two more to go. And here I am, still blogging!

Granted, blogging for me has now become a retreat of sorts – once a week, I have time to sit down and reflect on what happened to me the past week, to ask if I need to breathe, re-organise…

Speaking of re-organisation, there is one thing that I’ve started, and need to finish – cleaning my wardrobe.

I used to be content simply digging through my wardrobe and grabbing the first few things off the top of my clothes pile, or prising my clothing-hangers free. Then one day, while I was trying to wrangle a dress down from an upper railing, the entire thing collapsed on me.

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State of my wardrobe, pre-clearing

The screw pinning the metal railing to the wall snapped from the weight of all the coats and dresses I’d hung on it. It set off a domino effect – the  weight of the clothes from the upper railing sent the pole clattering noisily down, and promptly loosened the screw holding the bottom railing in place. The length of that pole then squashed my shoulder, cushioned by velvet and cotton . Fortunately – my hand and my arm were nowhere near it. Otherwise, it’d have hurt more.

I lifted it off me, but very, very slowly. I couldn’t get a good grip on the pole because of the clothes, but I managed to lever it slowly, and escaped. The pole fell to the floor with a loud thunk, denting the floor, and that was the impetus I needed to actually clear out my wardrobe.

First, of course, I had to repair my wardrobe. Afterwards, I formulated a battle plan: I’d empty out my wardrobe,  divide them into neat piles, and then sort them into keep, donate, and bin.  It was such a lovely plan too, until I pulled my tops out from my wardrobe.

To say that my bed was buried under the mountain of clothes was an understatement. To begin with, I had thirteen years’ worth of clothes to clear out! I think I heard the bedsprings creak as I finally piled on the last of it.

I found so many horrific pieces in my wardrobe – an over-sequined piece of garish pinks and blues I’d bought on a whim; a lace top that was falling apart; a mustardy-green-yellow that had been a well-meaning gift from my aunt. All those went into the “donate” pile – or if they were too ratty, reluctantly into the “bin” pile.

I also found old memories, happier times: a toy mummy sarcophagus that I’d buried in the depths of my wardrobe when I was eight, convinced the plastic figurine could curse me; a small box of doll-sized clothes, for dressing my teddy bear in; all my old Chinese dance costumes from when I could barely do a split. Those were carefully put away into a separate box, to be sorted through later.

When I was done, I’d reduced the tops I had by half, and my back was aching. But for once, my wardrobe didn’t feel so musty, and I could walk into it without tripping over bags. I had three neat boxes of clothes to donate. But now I have to take care of my pants, my dresses, and all my old jackets and coats…

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