I ransacked my closet like a reckless thief tonight, hellbent on getting rid of some of all of the clothes I don’t wear. I’m really not a packrat — I go through my closet a few times a year and donate a trashbag full of clothes just about every time (and I SWEAR I don’t buy that many clothes — how there is anything left in my closet is TOTALLY beyond me).

This time, however, I was more gung-ho than usual. There are some clothes that I’ve held onto strictly because of sentimental reasons, but haven’t worn in years. Chucked those. And then there are the things that are slightly out of style but I keep thinking I might be able to layer with something cooler. History.

And then, I came to those clothes that I bought around the time I moved to Florida, eight years ago. Some of the clothes are, unfortunately, a little too small for me now, and I’ve realized that, even if I get to a point where they fit again, their just not appropriate. Why? BECAUSE I’M NOT 20 ANYMORE!!!

It was at this point I sat on the floor, surrounded by tank tops and dresses that I wore out to clubs and to class and, you know, everywhere, and started to CRY like a baby. A baby who is, it appears, OLD. When did this happen? All of a sudden, I no longer look like the girl I was.

I’m moving on to new stages of life, and I’m really excited about it, but at the same time I feel like I didn’t get to say a proper good-bye. Did she slip out the door when I stopped going out for drinks during the week? Did she steal away when I became more interested in saving for retirement than saving for Spring Break? Or did she sneak off when my clothing choices became influenced more by Ann Taylor than by Buckle?

And why didn’t she let me know she was leaving? I don’t want to be her anymore, but did she have to disappear completely? If I promise not to wear any shirts that show midriff (and I do — I promise), could she come back to play every once in a while? At least stop by for a going-away party?

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