univacgrl: (Default)
( May. 15th, 2016 02:17 pm)
CW: Female body stuff (and blood)

Got my period today, which better explains yesterday's mood crash than just being late on taking the meds.  Actually it's more like I got my second period, after a week of "spotting" that was heavy enough to require tampons.  I thought it was my real period, but no. I don't get to have happy moon goddess periods (easy with light flow).  Periods suck and they've been so traumatic (as in super painful and spectacularly heavy) for me over the years that I literally block out the memory of having them almost every time.  Then they come again and it's all like "Surprise!" (Worst surprise ever, by the way.)  I literally can't tell you when I had my last one but I think I'm pretty regular.  Now that I'm taking progesterone to help keep me from having ovarian cysts (which are also spectacularly painful in a whole different way) as often, my periods are ... somewhat better.  Ok, a lot better with a week of light to medium spotting and then a week of medium heavy bleeding and cramps that are still pretty painful but not as bad.  And being able to use the regular and super size of tampon a few times a day, instead of the super and extra-super-disco-plus sizes and having to change them every hour or two.

It used to be I'd have twelve to fourteen days of heavy bleeding, overwhelming back pain, and all the Emo feelings. It would start very suddenly (because, "Surprise!"), like turning on a faucet, and then it would get heavier.  About six to seven days in it would slow to nothing for a several hours or a day and I'd breathe a sigh of relief. But it was just my body saying "Psych!", because the faucet would turn on again, full blast, and I'd have another week of dealing with cramps and So. Much. Blood.  And if I took any anti-inflammatory medicine for pain relief, the blood flowed faster than the old-school feminine hygiene products could keep up with.  It often felt like the prom scene in the original Carrie (a character with whom I felt I had uncomfortably much in common), blood everywhere. So many clothes ruined, and shame for having fewer clothes that fit me to wear. A strong aversion to buying or wearing any kind of light-colored bottoms, and shame when the inevitable bleed-through happened. A feeling of everything being out of control and being shamed for having mood swings throughout. There was the one time my parents sat me down and said I needed to stop being so angry all the time (and with no guidance on how [or even a question about why], just "stop doing that"). But when something that is so hard to deal with takes up a third to half of your life from the summer before I entered fifth grade, it's kind of hard to learn to regulate that kind of emotional thunderstorm.

Day 10

Didn't want to get started, but again once I did it got easier.  First thing I spotted was a fuzzy coin purse, a holiday gift that had been accompanied by a matching beret (that was too small).  At least the beret had already gone in some of the purging before the move.  I thought I was done but my brain said no. ("But it was a GIFT" my hoarder brain says, "you need to treasure it... forever.  No one will ever give you gifts again because you're so horrible"  My hoarder brain is really creepy like that.)

I went around and picked out all the recyclable stuff I could see in the living room (and a quick pass through the bedroom, too).  It started with a ticket stub from Frozen 2D and became a pile of many many old and not-so-old receipts, some junk mail, and a few empty shopping bags.

There were the two Eeyore patches I'd picked off of a pair of overalls from a clothing exchange.  I like Eeyore.  Maybe now that should be past tense. I liked to wear things with Eeyore on them because it was a signal that I had depression, like the quietest call for help ever.  Eeyore gets put on stuff as an ironic commentary that a character couldn't be that sad, (but people are).  So it was like using a lie to be honest.  Nobody believes it but it is true.  Over time it started to feel like a red flag (or a scarlet letter), something else to be stigmatized for.  Because the world isn't a safe space to be vulnerable in, even if it's just a t-shirt, or an applique.

Today's Emo Grenade was a trio of tiny Sephora nail polishes I'd gotten for aunt Arlene for Christmas in 2014.  My father forbid me from giving them to her "because she'd just make a mess with them", but wearing nail polish made her so happy. She never got them and they stayed in a Sephora gift bag until today, and she died a year ago this month.  Hi there, guilt bomb.

Ok, stop me before I italicise anything else.
 In the rush of getting out of the house yesterday morning, I forgot to take my meds until after we got home from the movie (late in the afternoon).  Today I feel extra down, extra fragile, extra volatile. I took D on a short adventure to try and do one of the food challenges only to be slightly disappointed that Seven Eleven didn't have any sugar-free Slurpee flavors today.  A friend stopped to visit and told us he was doing better than he had been, and then shared some big life-news, the type that even though it doesn't affect me personally still feels like an avalanche.  And he's happy, so it's not like I'm going to try and tell him that I think it's a bad idea. I want to be happy for him but I feel like it's all going to be a trainwreck.  He's also asked us not to tell anyone else and mentioned that he didn't think he'd be able to hide it from his young daughter for much longer.  Not that I'm a parent or anything, but I felt compelled to give him some advice about helping his daughter not let the cat out of the bag.  It was from an article I'd read, saying that keeping secrets can be damaging for children, so he should tell her it was a surprise and not a secret. Surprises have more positive connotations, and imply that there will be an appropriate time to share information. Secrets never have an expiration date.

In the wake of hearing this news and pretending to be happy by saying all the things one says on hearing that particular type of thing, I got snippy with D who repeated something I'd literally just said as if he'd come up with the idea himself. As a very quiet woman who deals with this a lot I kind of exploded at him. How does one say "I just said that!" politely?  And I felt he was dismissive of how irksome it is to me, and then he said something that made me realize just how much of a white male privilege bubble he lives in (because again, he was verbally somewhat dismissive of hardships people who are not white nor men experience).  And it's not like he's a douchey bro, he's just completely, blissfully unaware.

Day 9:

In packing up our old place, I had winnowed out many things and items of clothing to get rid of.  For clothes I was keeping, I put into clear plastic bags with pieces of paper with KEEP written in black Sharpie showing in the bottom.  There are many bags, all over the bedroom and office and the thought of unpacking them makes me quail at the sheer amount of them to go through.  It's a lot easier when I open one up because it's a certain time of day and I've realized I still have to go find something to get rid of.  That way it's not unpacking, unpacking just happens while I'm looking for at least one thing to let go of.  

Red lace surplice LB top, too big.  Far too much cleavage exposure, to the point where my bra was showing when I tried it on.

Next was the olive green military-styled vest, too big. I really wanted it to still fit, because it's really cute (and what if I get fat again dragged itself through my mind while I looked at it.  Cute things are hard to find in larger sizes.  

The electric green slip was easy to let go of. It's a full coverage long slip/nightie from a clothing exchange.  Bright neon green is one of my colors. It'll always attract my eye But if the purpose of a slip is to make sheer fabrics more opaque or to provide a non-clingy base for clothes to lay on the body, a bright green slip isn't going to do it quietly.  

Last was another emo grenade, something from the Great Greg Stuff Giveaway: a lime green women's shirt that had to have been stock from when he ran a retail store called Vibe Alive.  The art screened on it is very obviously by John K (the Ren and Stimpy guy). I barely fit into it at my lowest weight. Ok, it didn't really "barely fit", I just squashed myself into it and looked like an overfilled sausage.  But I got a lot of "hey, cool shirt" comments from both friends and strangers, so Greg-memory plus social affirmation (by which I mean not feeling invisible) has made it hard to get rid of.  But it doesn't fit. It never fit. I'm never going to be the person who wears that shirt without mentally feeling self-conscious and physically feeling constricted.  
Big plans this morning. D & I had heard that one of our favorite restaurants, Bon Temps Creole Cafe, finally opened in its new location last Tuesday, so we made plans for breakfast on my weekday off, today.  Since I hate crowds, I was afraid if we waited until Saturday it'd be packed and, well, crowds suck.  I love Bon Temps, irrationally so.  It's where I've had wonderful times with so many of my friends. There's just something special about eating a good hearty breakfast with people I love.  So this morning we went. It was delicious, and I felt that the lovely  new location made everything taste a little bit brighter.  And I ate the biscuit and it was heavenly.

Their new location is an older building in Railroad Square. And it was bittersweet. Our former apartment is a block away and I still feel such a sense of shame that we were asked to leave it, and I don't like to go near places that make me feel that way.  I'm good at avoiding places. There are streets in SLO I haven't driven down in over a decade. 

Day 8:

Big grey and black men's sweater, oversized and heavy, but not very warm.  Depression clothes.  Something I wear when I'm depressed. It's not like getting rid of them will make me magically not depressed anymore.  I just feel like I shouldn't keep them because they are literally weighing me down.  

A pair of pink shorts that fit me at my largest. I'd wear them around the house when it got hot, but not out. More depression clothes.

A mauve tank top with Eeyore on it. Because Eeyore is the spirit animal for the depressed.  Too big, and the Eeyore screened on it is so thick it sticks to itself.  And it's not exactly like I need to advertise that I'm depressed. And sometimes I'm Piglet.

 A red and black double-knit scarf with heart motives.  I like the idea of it more. Never wore it and it rarely got cold enough in SLO, even in the winter.  

I also pulled out a wad of receipts and coupons from my purse. Recycle bin.
It was No-Break Thursday today, but it's a whole different ballgame when I get to choose to work through lunch instead of being forced to.  Today I had more physical therapy, and got to leave work early. More neck stretching today, and this time I was really trying hard to relax. It worked a little better this time, but along the way I got caught up in a hell of a thought. (This is what happens when I get stuck lying on my back staring at an acoustic tile ceiling for ten minutes or so, ruminating.)  I was wondering what my husband gets out of our relationship with all the taking care of me and my neuroses, and all I could come up with is "not much".  I almost started crying on the table.  Oh hey there, feelings of worthlessness, it's only been a few hours.

Day 7

Just a couple of things today.  The first items are four ribbon roses on wire stems that were favors from a wedding.  I helped make some of these rose favors, too, which was pretty fun.  Maybe if there were three or just one, I could keep it, but four is a weird number to have a group of things of.  

I'm pretty sentimental about weddings so I tend to keep crap like that. The bride went through all the trouble to give me a memento of their wedding and so I feel obligated to keep that shit.  But it's worthless. And sometimes tacky.  And then when the couple divorces you have this thing reminding you about that failed marriage and it becomes even more burdensome.  During my last round of decluttering I was soundly (and rightly) mocked for having a pair of painted wooden candlesticks from a wedding whose participants had been divorced for over a decade. The couple whose wedding the roses came from are still married (and look to stay that way, thank goodness).  I guess it's that change-hating part of me that's always getting stuck in the past.

Next up is a pair of  plaid cotton Joe Boxer pajama trousers that came from a clothing exchange.  I was so excited that I could fit my fat ass into them I didn't care so much that they had a big tear along the fly in front.  "I could repair them!"  But I won't.   Ever. 

Tonight I drank my dinner. Butternut squash soup from a box (thank Target for an easy meal) and terrible sweet wine with diet ginger ale.  It works better and faster than ibuprofen for my post PT muscle soreness.
univacgrl: (Default)
( May. 11th, 2016 06:50 pm)
 So. Tired.  #NoBreakWednesday again.  Did not want to think about getting rid of stuff when I got home because I'm so damned tired.  Work is  a constant state of moving from one task to another, while being interrupted by answering the phone and checking patients in and out.  And my neck hurts. A lot.  Arm is still going numb and tingly on the regular.  (My brain is so fried I'm watching animated Avengers Assemble right now.)  So I got home and felt a moment of panic when I walked in the door.

Day 6

D had done some more laundry and there was another small stack of unmatched socks, among which was a single pink shoe-liner sock, and I knew exactly where its match was (having completely reorganized my socks last weekend). They're way too small for my giant feet and every time I tried to wear them they'd come off either my heels or my toes, usually opposite ones on both feet.  After I found the first thing, the rest came more easily.  I pulled a basket of clothes off my closet shelf and started rummaging through it.  There was another LB long sleeved shirt that was too big. Well, it was too wide.  Then there was the pair of too-small leggings with the blown out crotch. All I could think was "What? Why?".  And then I decided to stop for today. I know how tired I am and I didn't want to get in that "must finish everything NOW " mode that sets me up for so much agita. Not gonna do it.

Kirk out.
Tuesdays are hard. After full days of work on Mondays,  leaving for work the next morning is the hardest thing.  There's still most of the week to get through, and most days I don't get to take breaks (and some days I don't get to take a lunch), and I just know my demanding job will take it out of me.  Getting out the door usually involves a brief crying jag, then a stop to fix my makeup, just like this morning did.

Day 5:

There's a white shirt with a drape front I've had for several years. I've been holding on to it because "someday" I was going to make a pattern out of it but not take it apart. It's probably been a literal decade since I put it on my body.  It's white, and of course it has stains in the front, along with a few holes here and there from overzealous application of bleach. It's so never going to happen, because I seem to have a thing about taking things apart that are still reasonably functional, especially clothes.  When I was a kid, I went to parochial school, and we had uniforms to wear every day.  I didn't have much in the way of other clothes to wear, because I was too fat to fit into age-appropriate clothes.  And I outgrew them quickly.  It's why I only ever had one pair of cutoff jean shorts.  Jeans that fit me were such a rare find (especially at thrift stores) that they were so much more valuable as long pants than taking off large pieces of fabric to make a (less useful) pair of ratty unhemmed shorts.  So no taking functional things apart for me.

A couple of old sonicare brush heads made it into the recycling bin. They'd been hanging out waiting for me to figure out how to pull those very powerful magnets off of them.  Not  gonna happen either.  There was also a jar of Clinique eye cream that had been the reparation from a class-action suit (and I have bought Clinique stuff, so yes, I was getting some of that). It was almost empty, and the dregs were all dried up.  But at least I can say I used up most of it.  Rinsed out and then into the recycling bin.
univacgrl: (Default)
( May. 9th, 2016 06:40 pm)
 Since I hurt my neck (with consequent left arm pain, numbness, and tingling) a few weeks ago, I've been going to physical therapy on the regular. It makes things feel better for a bit, then worse, then slowly better.  I have to admit of being afraid of the traction machine, literally afraid of it, because it's pulling my  head away from my shoulders by the neck.  I've been lying on the table stiff as a board and having a silent freak-out because I've seen way too many sci-fi shows where machines go wrong and there are things like decapitation or two vertebrae going 180 degrees in opposite directions.  I just had the courage to ask today how I'm supposed to be, and what the traction is actually pulling on, and of course, I was doing it wrong.  Muscles are supposed to be relaxed during traction, the more, the better, so there's that.  Leave it to me to think that something that's supposed to be healing is to be experienced as a punishment.

Day Four:

Today there were two items making the long goodbye.  First was a black lace-trimmed LB camisole top that I wore to work today under a light silk shirt.  I've been in denial that it's too big for a while, because the fabric has a great hand and drape, and the faux surplice style makes it much nicer than the rest of the camisoles and undershirts I own. Plus, it's black.  I'd had to shorten the straps almost all the way down when I put it on this morning and it wasn't until I'd gotten home from a full day of work that I could really see that it just didn't fit me anymore. I just can't see my body's actual size for what it is in relationship to my own clothes. It's maddening enough that sizing between companies is so wildly different (and companies sometimes vary their sizing from season to season) but the fact that I literally cannot tell what fits me and what doesn't unless I have time to let it sink in how it fits on my frame. I can't see myself right.

Second was a scarf I'd gotten in a clothing exchange. Interesting fabric, pretty pattern, but a huge square of fabric that perpetually needed ironing.  And since this homeslice don't iron no mo (unless i absolutely have to, it goes away.
 For two nights running I've had nightmares of dark water sweeping away a house containing someone I care about.. The first was a creek flooding and undermining the foundation of my grandmother's old house while she was inside.  The rising water had already taken the garage and was threatening to tip the house into the creekbed, destroying it. And I couldn't go back in for my grandmother, because it wasn't safe. (Why do you have to be so fucking literal, brain?  I haven't been back to my grandmother's house since before my father sold it, because different people own it and there are more houses built on the fields she fought to keep from being built on.  She's gone and it doesn't feel safe for me to go back, even to look. I get it.)

The second was Benedict Cumberbatch being filmed for a Japanese game show in a nearby artificial town being deliberately flooded for television.  It turned out the water they used was untreated sewage and I spent a good portion of the dream trying to get to him to warn him that he was going to get pink-eye if he didn't get out of the water and cleaned off before he rubbed his eyes.  He asked if I wanted a picture with him when I ran up to him, and I had to refuse because he needed know why he had to get cleaned up right away (plus ew, raw sewage).  So, possible moral of the story from my literal brain: even my heroes are human beings, meatbags full of shit and piss and other disgusting bits, and also, most of the time the things one sees on television aren't real. Do I get it? Maybe.

Day 3

Today there was only one item.  I know I'm not going to be super aggro about picking stuff out to get rid of every day, because some (most) days I'm pretty tired from generally being depressed all the time and holding down a job and being the kindest fucking dogsbody in that office.  And today I had to psyche myself up to make the Mother's Day call (which I at least got through rather early).  I got Nice Mom this time, which was lots better than Passive Aggressive Mom, Bitchy Mom, Belittling Mom, Resentful Mom, or any of the others it's possible to get dealt out of the deck. Today's item going out of my life was a nice Mary Kay hand care kit to make one's hands super soft and smooth, hand scrub, overnight moisturizer cream (there used to be some gloves to keep the overnight stuff off your bed sheets in it too) and everyday hand cream, given to me by my girlfriend. I used it twice like five or six years ago, both times when I was knitting with really soft yarn because I didn't want the fibers to get caught on my rough hands.  And it was weird. But I use my hands too much for them to ever be that soft, or "nice".  I guess it's one of those self-care things that I can't bring myself to do because I don't see the value in doing it for myself, even if it just made my hands moderately nicer, just for me, and just for a little while.  So into the trash the stuff went, and I scrubbed off the zippered pouch to put it into the Go-Away Box.  

The remainder of the day was watching the accumulated stuff on the TiVo, and after D came home from his meeting we watched The Avengers that it had caught (Yes, I do have a Hiddleston "tape everything" wishlist on it, which is why I still have the episode of the Late Late Show where he's holding a baby cloud leopard.  Strictly as a unicorn chaser [and it's a rainbow colored unicorn farting glitter across the night sky], I might need to watch it again someday.)  I almost got to take a nap on the living room floor while D was playing Fallout 4 (with headphones on because all the shooting noise makes me twitchy after a very short while [Thanks PTSD!]) but he woke me up thinking I was sleeping on my bad arm (I wasn't, but he couldn't see from his spot on the sofa).  

So it's been a somewhat unproductive Sunday, but I nearly got to nap.  Perhaps it's better that I didn't, given my propensity for nightmares lately.
univacgrl: (Default)
( May. 7th, 2016 04:25 pm)
 After a bad night's sleep (once again featuring nightmares!), I woke up and got started on the rest of the plastic bin drawers.  And here be dragons.  A goddamned shirt, combined with that nightmare touched off a crying jag this morning. But the less said about it, the better, so into the Go-Away Bag it went.

There was lingerie: tights, stockings, corsets a few bras and nightgowns, some other shirts, leggings and socks. So many socks. For someone who wears plain white athletic socks almost exclusively, I sure have a lot of socks that aren't plain or white.  I matched up the socks, rolled all of the tights and stockings, and made some decisions about the shirts.  Several items still have the tags on them, because I tend to not take the tags off clothes until I'm actually going to wear them. Perhaps it's my way of attempting not to take ownership of the [too many] things that I buy during random bouts of retail therapy, especially clearance items or things bought because they were on sale and there was a super deal.

There was the shirt I bought because, velvet.  Every damn time I put that shirt on I'd stroke the velvet, walk past the mirror and realize that my bra straps would be showing through the sheer lace yoke. Strapless bras made my shape look weird in it.  And so I'd take it off again and put it back in the drawer, never to be worn. A similar one had a completely sheer back that would not only show my bra but also my fat rolls.   There was the fancy Lane Bryant lace shirt that I bought on a trip I won in a sweepstakes. Then there was the bra with sugar skulls on them.  Right cup size, wrong band size (way too big), bought with the idea "what if I get fatter again?". Which is probably why I keep half of the clothes I do. My size has changed from 24W to 14 and it's now back to 16 or 18. There's always that niggling thought in the back of my mind, "what if I get fatter again?", and it makes getting rid of clothes so, so difficult.

Day 2

Any stockings, socks, tights, or leggings with holes or runs went straight into the trash.

The things mentioned above.
Buh-bye to the vinyl-topped thigh-high fishnets I would never wear (Hot Topic sale with a coupon).
A really tatty corset that I picked up at a clothing exchange. (It could have been the basis for a costume or something.)
Yet another PolyCon shirt.
A cute top that is just a tad too small.
A pair of striped trousers (of which I have a duplicate) with a small tear I will never ever mend.
A t-shirt from a tech company I have no connection to.
A pair of ivory chiffon scarves with beaded velvet panels that I thought I would make something out of (all I did was get them dirty).
A sheer lace nightgown (too big, too sheer)
A couple of tank tops (one men's and one women's)
More wrong sized bras, including some sports bras (which are both too large AND too small at the same time, because my body is talented like that)
A shirt my best friend gave me. It's a beautiful Lane Bryant maroon long-sleeved stretchy top that feels wonderful, but is, alas, much too big, and I can't justify keeping it when I'm sure it'll make someone else very happy. (Which is the only way I can convince my brain to LET THE FUCK GO of some things.)
univacgrl: (Default)
( May. 6th, 2016 12:44 pm)
We've just moved, to a new apartment, in a new city (not really that far from the old one, but it feels like it's far far away), and I'm drowning in my own things. I have unmatched socks that are years old that I've kept in the hopes that their mates will just magically show up "someday".  I have underwear that I know I bought back when I was in college (and it's in fine shape, because I never wore those pairs much anyway). I have enough makeup to do myself up with a face full o' slap for years. I have enough halloween makeup to outfit an entire burlesque troupe. I have way too much yarn, as well as a hell of a lot of needles, hooks, glitter, glue/paint, wire, floss, ribbon, beads, fabric, and paper sewing patterns. Apparently I collect sewing patterns, because I've made like six things from them (and only two for myself), even though the whole point is to make myself wonderful things to wear, but I don't have room to do anything because, you guessed it, I have too much stuff to work around. I have too many paper books, though some are special like the signed Gaimans.   I have some belongings remaining from three different dead people, even though I know keeping it won't bring any of them back. Some of which I got to choose (and those items give me life), but most of which I took because it didn't have anywhere else to go besides the trash, and I feel sadness, grief, and terrible loss whenever I catch sight of them. But I can't bear the thought of getting rid of them either, so glimpsing a pair of pink-toed socks or the antique toaster can reduce me to tears at times.  

It's become beyond obvious, even to me, that I don't own my stuff. My stuff owns me.  With the move, there have been some easy decisions to get rid of a few things, like obvious trash or recyclables. I've been making some conscious decisions lately, mostly about clothes that don't fit. I'll put them on because they're close at hand, and if they just don't feel right (or if after a day of wearing them start to not feel right, something I call 'giving them the farewell tour'), I'll take a good hard look at them and then probably consign them to the Go-Away Bag (which lives right next to the Go-Away Box that holds the things-that-aren't-clothes to get rid of).   D's been helping me by getting rid of a few things when I'm not around, because if I don't see them, I probably won't miss them.  Sometimes I do see them, and then I nod and leave them in the trash, sometimes I am compelled to pick out one or two things.  Mostly, I have the desire to pull all of my stuff around me in a protective shell. Yes, like that character in Labyrinth, which for me was the most frightening thing in that film.

To that end I'm going to try to get rid of at least one thing each day, to donate/sell or recycle/trash, for thirty days.  I know it's not the first of the month; I know it's not a Sunday (or a Monday). Starting on those beginning-type days just doesn't work for me because it feels like too much pressure (and I don't do transitions well). I know I've been doing it in fits and starts already.  So I'm just going to close my eyes and -- keep going.

Day 1 (Officially Counting): 

I got off to a roaring start, since D put together the second dresser we bought from Ikea (just before we had to move). My clothes are in bags all over the bedroom and though the dresser's been together for a week or so, I hadn't put anything in it.  I have this (irrational?) fear that we're going to have to move again, on a moment's notice.  Last night he told me he'd taken my bras out of their box and put them in a drawer, which kind of sparked today's adventure.  I've been keeping socks and underthings (and other foldable clothes) in plastic bin drawers, which were filled to overflowing as soon as I got them.  I started with the top and made it through the second by laying everything out on the bed. So in transferring two of the plastic bins' content into the new dresser I was able to put into the Go-Away Bag: two bunches of (matched) socks that don't fit, a bunch of bras that don't fit (all the sizes around the one I'm currently at but especially the ones that are way too small), and three tank top undershirts that are pretty ratty.  I sorted out the things that weren't either socks or underthings and stuck them back one of the two plastic drawer bins I'd emptied. The other drawer bin is an intermediary holder for things I'm not sure about keeping (I wasn't up to trying on 12 bras right now). I put all the unmatched socks on the top of the bin dresser and, once I'd gotten the bed cleared off again, called it good.

There was one thing that I was determined to get rid of that I didn't.: a black, wide-ribbed, cropped tank top that I bought in my first year of college.  It's a basic item.  I was still able to stuff myself into it (at home and in private) even at my largest size. It went to at least two Burning Mans (probably more), and it's still soft and comfortable.  I tried it on this morning and it just doesn't fit me right.  The straps are too narrow, the scoop is too low, and it's a crop top, on this body.  But I couldn't put it in the bag.  Maybe some other time but not right now.  

For anyone who thinks this is the KonMari method, well, yeah, it is, kind of.  I read a little bit of the book's first chapter on a stop during a (highly emotional) emergency trip to see my parents. I thought "Ok, this sounds totally doable, but right now I've got to see my sick dad, so laters."  A few weeks later I picked up my own copy of the book on a Target mosey, brought it home and started reading it again, thinking to myself "Reasonable, reasonable, reasonable, OK HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE RIGHT THERE NOPE."  I can't remember exactly what it was that set me off (maybe the "doing it all at once" and being happy with only a minor fraction of what you originally had), but I closed the book, put it on the arm of the sofa (to let it fall underneath, where it lived until we moved out) and got up and got away from that thing.  There are now four books that I've had that kind of reaction to, and the other three involved a particular form of harm to children that I experienced myself.   So something about getting rid of stuff lights up the DANGER sign in my hindbrain, because, hoarder from a family of barely-controlled hoarders.  So, kinder, gentler, (yes, slow as fuck) KonMari-like, but not KonMari.
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