Tangled hangers drive me crazy. I usually don’t have the patience to untangle them, but the whole purpose of this exercise is to untangle, tidy, clean, organize.
I flop on the bed next to the piles of clothes and work on the hangers for a few minutes until I can line them up, all of them facing the same way. I hang them back in my closet, at the far end, so that when I need a hanger I can just reach back there for a fresh one. How very grown-up—this supply of hangers.
It’s been over a year since I moved my clothes into this closet. It’s the biggest walk-in I have ever had, but I have to share it with my husband—his shirts hang there, in order by color and day of the week. Light baby blues, some yellow, grassy green ones, a few whites. All one-color, the same conservative Oxfords. A couple of khaki pants, suits. One hanger with ties. That’s all he has. That’s all he needs.
My clothes threaten to spill over onto his side. Shoes are piled on the floor and in two shoe racks. My feet have gotten bigger since my son was born and I can’t face the fact that I have to get rid of so many pairs. The shelf running on top of the bar with the hangers is packed almost to the ceiling—once these were tidy piles of sweaters and t-shirts and jeans, but now they are a jumble of fabric, most of it unreachable.
I haven’t been sleeping well. Stuff wakes me at 2:00 a.m. or 3:00 a.m. every morning, and some days I stare in the darkness into the closet with its military precision on one side and its bohemian confusion on the other. Maybe this is what’s not letting me sleep, I think, this mess, this disorganized void staring back at me.
I drink a glass of wine every night for a few nights and that helps.
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