The Way I Was

Listen, I'm very big on recycling. Plastic bottles. Newspapers. Old blogs. Long before Marie Kondo became a cottage industry, 10 years ago, to be exact, I wrote this piece, and guess what? Nothing has changed. So here it is again, nice people. 

The other day, I took on the only place in the house that is truly mine. That’s right. I cleaned my closet. The strange and wondrous contents of my walk-in nightmare often parallel my state of mind: Cluttered, not to mention, painfully honest. Each hanger, occupied by dress, skirt, blouse, pick your obsolete fashion, sends a mean-spirited message to my central nervous system: Too young. Too old. Too small. Too big. It all adds up to a disorganized display of, “Seriously, what was I thinking?” The hours flew by as I purged my closet of outdated outfits I never should have bought in the first place. And I was feeling good. I was feeling strong. Unattached, unsentimental. And then, without warning, I converted to mush. As I reached for ancient-looking handbags I'd held onto for eons, I spiraled down memory lane. The tears started flowing. I couldn’t stop myself. The floodgates opened. I started singing. I sang for every woman I know. Join me now, won’t you? Let it out! Sing it for me, sing it for you, sing it for Babs, and her very bad perm that, God forgive me, I once duplicated.

Memories like the corner of my purse 

Misty, inky, smudgy memories 

Of the way I was 

Scattered pictures of the movies that I saw 

Crusty blush and ruby lipstick 

Made me look just like a whore 

Can it be I was hormonal then? 

Or has menopause twisted every thing 

I stopped needing Tampons long ago 

Tell me, why this bag has two or three? 

Memories may be questionable at best 

What’s so clear becomes so foggy 

Middle age makes me forget 

So it’s the kvetching 

I will remember 

Whenever I can remember 

The way I was 

The way I was...