Tag Archives: Linda Thornton

My Hindu Wedding Adventure

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Photo Hindu Wedding

My henna dried to a rich reddish brown color; beautiful!

Take my advice: If you are ever invited to a Hindu wedding, accept the invitation immediately. And if it’s in Portland, Oregon, plan to spend a week there.

My sister-in-law and brother-in-law are famous for their event planning, which usually includes a weeklong celebration for a family event. Lucky for us, it’s been in cities that we’ve yet to visit. Our latest family adventure was in Portland, Oregon for my niece’s wedding to a lovely young man of Sri Lankan descent.

The Haldi Ceremony

We are honored to be invited to the lovely home of the groom’s parents and observe this important pre-wedding event. On arrival, we remove our shoes and place them with the more than 50 other pairs on the floor of their grand entrance. The living room furniture has been removed and the wood floor is covered with colorful quilts. The parents and siblings of the bride and groom all take part in an elaborate ceremony conducted by a Hindu priest.

We learn that “haldi” is the Hindi word for turmeric. The women of the family had prepared a special paste of turmeric and herbs. The groom is led to a chair in the middle of the room and one by one, family and friends apply the paste to the groom’s skin. The older relatives lovingly pat on the cream while the younger family members jokingly smear it all over him. Its purpose is to cleanse body and soul. I am also told that because of its antibacterial properties, the groom has just received the equivalent of a $200 facial.

A delicious catered lunch follows and though I am usually a fussy eater, I enjoy every bite of the Indian specialties, along with the interesting conversations with friends and family from as far away as Sri Lanka and England. We thank our hosts and bid our new friends goodbye until the evening’s festivities.

The Sangeet Ceremony

I am here early in order to be first in line to receive a henna application from one of the two artists in attendance. The 300 plus guests have not yet arrived, so Carmen and I have time to chat. She tells me how she became a henna artist and that she mixes her own paste using lavender, known for its calming scent.

The DJ quickly gets the crowd on its feet by handing out colorful sticks and lining us up in a series of long lines facing each other. The Bollywood music starts and we learn a dance, tapping sticks with the person across from us before we move to the left, skip one person and continue.

The “Sangeet” is a celebration of the wedding to come in order to relish in the happiness and joy surrounding the bride and groom and join the two families together. We delight in watching the dance routines performed by family and friends in honor of the special couple and tasting the Indian street food that is served.

The Baraat

We are up early, standing outside the hotel where today’s festivities will take place. In a few minutes, the groom will arrive on a white horse. In times gone by, the groom’s wedding procession would travel to the bride’s village accompanied by friends and family. Today, led by a drummer and taped music, we all dance and sing as we escort him around the block. The look on the faces of the people in the coffee shop as we pass is priceless.

The Hindu Wedding

In the ballroom, a canopy of flowing sheer fabric and pastel flowers sits above elaborate gold gilded chairs. In the center are the items that the two Hindu priests will utilize for the ceremony. On each guest’s chair, is a detailed explanation of what will take place (which we are very grateful for), along with a small, brightly wrapped package containing a homemade cake. It will go well with the hot and cold beverages served. The event is a fusion of colorful saris worn by many of the guests.

The groom looks resplendent in his turban and matching gold and ruby red embroidered sherwani, a long, fitted coat. Only the bride can top this and she does. Her regal lehenga, an elaborately embroidered red and gold, two-piece skirt and top with a sheer sash is magnificent. The intricate henna designs on her feet and hands, the red “bindi” (a dot on her forehead), and the many bracelets that dangle up her arms have transformed my niece into a Hindu princess.

I am transfixed by the many lovely rituals that are performed; the look on the groom’s face when he sees his bride for the first time, hidden at first behind a white cloth; the flower garlands the bride and groom place on each other to proclaim acceptance of each other; the tying together of their scarves to signify their unity; the seven steps that they take together around the sacred fire, each representing marriage promises to each other.

As sacred fires sometimes do, its smoke triggers the hotel smoke alarm. The shrieking sound does nothing to deter the ceremony and the happy couple are gifted with photos of the firemen as part of their wedding album. A lovely lunch of Indian delights follows in a number of beautifully appointed rooms. We make our way back to our hotel and rest up for the next event.

The Western Wedding.

We’ve all changed into yet another outfit and we now congregate in a flower festooned room complete with soft music serenading us. The bridesmaids have changed from their saris to cocktail dresses and the groomsmen are now in suits and ties, rather than their sherwanis. The groom is dashing in his suit and bow tie and, once again, the bride steals the show in her elegant lace, blush colored gown and simple flower holding up her long hair on one side.

The Maid of Honor acts as the celebrant and enhances the ceremony with personal tidbits about the bride and groom, as only a friend can do. At one point, she catches us off guard by reminding us that this year marked the 50thanniversary of the landmark civil rights decision by the Supreme Court to invalidate laws prohibiting interracial marriage; a reminder that sparks emotion on this special day. The bride and groom’s vows give us a peek into their relationship, their promises to each other sweetly declared for all to hear.

We are ushered downstairs to another beautiful room for cocktails and hors d’ oeuvres, then later, we travel upstairs to a spectacular ballroom for dinner and dancing. In between, family and friends of the bride and groom welcome us, toast and even sing to the bride and groom. My sister-in-law and brother-in-law are tonight’s hosts. They were an integral part of every event and I marvel at how they both glowed, maneuvering through fabulous wardrobe changes and protocols as if they were experts. We dance the night away and make sure we hug all our new friends as the evening comes to a close.

The henna has since faded, but the coming together of two families and two cultures in the spirit of love will long be remembered.

 

 

 

The Nose Knows

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Photo Sneeze

Bless you! Gesundeit! Last evening, she suffered another uncontrollable burst of sneezing during dinner and almost fell off her chair. All eyes were upon her as she excused herself from the table. We all followed the sound of the rapid fire “achoos,” as she made her way to the ladies’ room. I trailed behind at a reasonable distance and checked to make sure she was OK.

I thought she was kidding when she said she suffered from snatiation, a combination of the words sneeze and satiation. It’s a lighthearted attempt to coin a medical condition actually called stomach sneeze reflex, which is characterized by sneezing when the stomach is full.

Though there is no known cure, eating smaller meals and/or eating slowly may relieve the symptoms. It is likely to be genetic and does not cause any other health problems. I assured her that there was no need to be embarrassed. Would she rather be tapped on the shoulder while dining and reminded out loud that bathing suit season was just around the corner? I suggested she think of it as her own personal health consultant traveling with her 24/7.

This made me wonder; what would happen if our body’s reflexes continued to monitor our shortcomings?

Picture a world where every time you gossiped, you got a case of the hiccups. Baffled, the medical community would search for an explanation to justify the increasing cases of hicabber (a blend of the words hiccup and blabber). Starbucks stock would plummet as hiccupping women around the world, who normally gathered to share some indiscreet conversation over a latte, wreaked havoc on unknowing customers.

Companies of every size would follow suit as major corporations began a campaign of posting a single paper bag in conspicuous places, a subtle reminder that, though considered a hiccup remedy, at that point the damage will have been done. With nothing to do but actually work, this one simple act would surge workplace productivity to an all-time high.

Imagine incessant blinking brought about by anger. Though blander, a merge of the words blink and dander (losing one’s temper), would initially be thought of as just another means to further hostility in today’s world, the blinking component of this phenomenon could actually temper the act of feeling infuriated. Road rage became nothing more than a blinking contest. In some cases, a blink was mistaken for a wink and the flutter of eyelids led to a first date.

According to Smithsonianmagazine.org, studies have shown that we blink at predictable moments in an attempt to gather thoughts and focus attention on the world around us. A few moments of mental resting might be what we required all along to alleviate aggression.

I know what you’re thinking and yes, there is the possibility of experiencing snatiation, hicabber and blander all at once, but don’t think of them as symbols of shame. In The Scarlet Letter, Nathanial Hawthorne’s character, Hester, comes to realize that the “A” initially intended to mark her as an adulterer eventually stood for “Able” and became a powerful symbol of identity that helped her navigate the world.

 

 

 

 

 

Unfurling My Curls

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Photo Unfurling My CurlsBeing a little girl with curly hair had its perks. I could launch into a medley of ShirleyTemple songs and tap dance my way to a later bedtime, but as I grew up I became tangled in its complexities.

My unruly curls and I were soon taken to my Titi Olga’s beauty salon for a consultation (Titi is an affectionate term for aunt, in Spanish). Located in the basement of her home, it most probably was being run without a license. Possibly affected by the strong odor of the chemical solutions, JC* lost all control of the situation and the decision was made to trust the illegal professional to give me a permanent. I left there with a lollipop and a hair style that gave new meaning to Curly Top, one of Shirley Temple’s hit movies.

As a teenager, the Beach Boys music reminded me that my curls were interfering with my goal of long, blonde, straight hair and living in California. Luckily, I had read in a teen magazine that I could straighten my hair on my own. The project required an ironing board, an iron and one important item that I had forgotten about: the towel that goes between the iron and the hair. It was a miracle that JC walked into the laundry room just at the right moment and shrieked, saving me from a 911 experience that would, no doubt, still be the talk of the police locker room today.

There was another article in that same teen magazine (they went bankrupt soon after) that said to set your hair with juice cans, the larger diameter helping to straighten the hair. Though my younger siblings were apprehensive at first, the little entrepreneurs set up shop, charging their friends 25 cents to view their alien older sister in her native habitat. And, when I awoke one morning, screaming, as I discovered that you could read the word “Tropicana” in bold letters across my rolled hair, those little devils raised the admission price to 50 cents.

As if out of a scene from It’s a Wonderful Life, I unexpectedly experienced life curl free when I became pregnant. It wasn’t pretty. My mind raced through the twists and turns of a life without those rowdy ringlets and I swore on my bubble hair dryer that if my curls somehow returned, I would never brush them off as an annoyance again.

In an ironic turn of events, Big A* was born with a bald little head and my curls miraculously returned, crowning my head, once again, with those wild twirls of hair that were and are the root of who I am.

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

 

 

 

 

 

The King of Queens

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Photo King of Queens

Ask anyone and they will tell you that I was the one to coin that phrase years before the popular TV show. My dad not only owned a construction company in Queens, a borough of Manhattan, he spoke of it as if it were his magical kingdom.

Every morning (sometimes seven days a week), he would leave the house before we got up and regale us with fascinating facts and stories when he’d arrive home. The reason that the fruits and vegetables from Queens were larger than any we’d ever seen was because the vacant lots they were grown in contained special soil. While he couldn’t make his way around a country road, he knew of a network of back alleys which could magically transport him to any Queens destination in half the time.

Though he only stood 5 feet 6 inches, he lived life large. He had a powerful presence that was not lost on any of the Queens store or restaurant owners. When he walked into an establishment, there was always a ruffle of excitement as they welcomed Mr. Frank and he delighted in that.

Wonderful marketer that he was, he noticed that the demographics in his area were changing. Many of the Queens homeowners were now widows who were a bit fearful of dealing with rough, tough and possibly unscrupulous contractors. That gave him the idea to create the persona of “The Gentleman Roofer.” His new Yellow Pages ad and business cards featured a photo of him in a bowler hat and tuxedo. When customers would ask if the Gentleman Roofer would be wearing his hat, he started to carry plastic ones in his trunk.

The photo shoot for the new marketing campaign was created in my parent’s living room. Initially, an argument ensued when my dad, in a hurry, insisted on just wearing the tuxedo jacket along with his boxer shorts, reasoning that the photo would be taken from the waist up. With JC* as the photographer (and no experience in this field of endeavor), what happened next was another Lucy and Desi moment. For years, those outtakes were the highlight of every family get together. We’d laugh until we cried at the photos of my dad yelling in each photo as JC repeatedly took crooked images of him in his combination tuxedo/underwear outfit.

Once he visited your home to give you a quote was when the magic happened. In five minutes, he would size you up. If you lived alone, he would show you family photos, tell you about his voice lessons and leave you a tape of him singing Frank Sinatra tunes. If you were aggressive and started haggling about pricing, he would suggest another area contractor. They were not as good as his company, but there might be a better rapport. This usually led to that customer calling, begging for another chance (and paying more for the privilege)

For months after he died, I would call his company phone number at night just to hear his robust voice on the message and smile. I knew that the new owner would eventually update it, but I doubted that anyone could match his Christmas message. Recorded over 50 times until perfect, it featured JC singing “Jingle Bells” softly in the background (again, with no experience in this field of endeavor) and my dad reminding you that you will have a happier holiday if you call the Gentleman Roofer for an appointment.

Happy Father’s Day!

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

 

How Our New Home Found Us

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Photo How Are Home Found Us

We love you, dear Austin and didn’t want to leave
But, home prices and no zoning had led us to believe

Our horizons should broaden, our focus widen for sure
Would any other Texas city have your allure?

So, with pen, paper and a positive stance
We compiled our wish list and then by chance

A vibrant, new friend gave us food for thought
As she regaled us with tales of the home she’d just bought

It was all she had dreamed of, all she would desire
And she was able to get in just under the wire

In her late 50s, she met the 55+ regulation
Now she’s the poster child for Sun City and our new inspiration

She’s swimming, she’s golfing, she’s dancing and that’s not all
She’s joined the hiking club, the Spanish club and is playing pickle ball

The amenities intrigued us and as her new friends were introduced
We wondered; are they actors and are we being seduced?

We pondered, we contemplated and finally our instincts we did obey
So, lookout Sun City, we’re heading your way!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Random Acts of Kindness Sandwiched Together

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Photo Random Acts Kindness

It had been 17 years since they had last encountered each other. From the very beginning, it was a volatile relationship. They did not bring out the best in each other. Her hope was that their association might terminate forever, but that was not to be.

My aunt knew it before the doctors did. When she told them that her Cancer had returned, they seemed taken aback. She felt as if her right breast was trying to tell her something. At first, she tried to ignore the constant feeling of something pulling inside her, but it became too hard to ignore.

She closed her eyes as the doctor spoke and all those words that she hoped she might never hear again came surging back into her mind: sonogram, tumor, biopsy. It was malignant, stage 1, but, once again, something deep inside her told her to have a mastectomy rather than a lumpectomy. As it turned out, this eradicated a string of Cancer cells that were lurking behind the scenes. The doctor praised her for being proactive; she had not only found her Cancer, she had also saved her own life.

When you are ill, you can let yourself wallow in a bubble of get well cards, doctor visits and the awkward smiles of visitors who fumble for the right thing to say, but my aunt decided that she would, instead, gather herself up in her faith and not be afraid.

For the next 28 days at 3:30 p.m. each afternoon she would travel to the hospital for radiation therapy. The 10 minutes went by quickly and she mastered the drill: gown on, lie down, eyes closed, head left, angles set, lights on, panel activated, imagine the high doses of energy killing off the tumor cells as if it were a video game, get up, get dressed, repeat.

On day 29, she woke up and decided that she needed to do something special for the wonderful staff that had helped her through her ordeal. She had expected a more clinical atmosphere and not the daily welcome hugs, the smiles and the small talk that came with her 10 minutes a day. How many times did they repeat this patient scenario in the course of a day?

She didn’t care if her family thought she was going overboard, a box of candy or a tin of cookies wouldn’t do; she would cater a lunch for the entire staff. To this day, she does not know why she bypassed the restaurant she intended to enter and walked into another one down the street instead. The manager had to be called when she noted that, instead of paying with a credit card, she intended to pay cash when she returned to pick up the lunch order for 15 later that day.

Usually not considered outspoken, her arduous journey thus far had toughened her up a bit and she vowed not to leave without placing her order, credit card or not. She gave the manager the short story of her last 28 days and noticed his demeanor change immediately. In a soft voice, this big man, who seemed a bit stern around the edges just a minute ago, shared his story. As the words poured out of him as to how his wife had died of breast cancer, they embraced. Then, he looked into my aunt’s eyes soulfully and said “…You must promise me that you will not refuse what I am going to do right now…”

They argued for a few minutes, she stating that as a business man, he needed to be more practical, he affirming that it was his pleasure to pay for the entire lunch order. In the end, he won. She thanked him a hundred times and gave him two more hugs and kisses. He sat in the back room for a while after she had gone, trying to regain his composure from what had not been a typical morning.

The 28 days were a blur to her and, for now, she forgot about everything she had been through. The staff was overwhelmed by her generosity and together they enjoyed the lunch and the camaraderie.

Little by little, constant talk of her health gave way to the normalcy of life. What’s for dinner? What are the grandchildren up to? She relished those ordinary parts of life that now seemed so important and meaningful.

The bone chilling numbness felt when surprised by an unwelcome twist of fate, the warmth of a guardian angel’s guidance, the bright glow of kindness; from time to time, she would think about how a devastating diagnosis could bring about such a beautiful ending.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Regrets

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Photo Regret

I picture them as microscopic annoyances with arms and legs. Their sardonic grin and facial features make you wonder if they are any relation to the Grinch. In military formation, they strive to locate access to any route possible in order to achieve their goal; to get under your skin. You’d be better off having thousands of these invaders with endless time on their hands tackle you on pogo sticks than what you are feeling right now. It’s an endless loop of what ifs, how comes and whys that relentlessly keep poking at you.

Now that they have you where they want you, they regroup and continue their campaign. This is the clandestine location that you do not want them to invade at any cost; inside your head. Once they make camp there, you are prisoner to a persistent voice that repeats a mantra that is able to continue regardless of time and location. If you’ve ever pressed your tongue against a sore tooth repeatedly, even though you know it will be hurt, you know that feeling of not being able to let go. This is it.

According to Psychology Today: “…Studies have shown that regret is the most common emotion people mention as part of their daily lives. Fortunately, rewriting history in our heads, rather than playing the cards in our hands can also have some positive aspects to it. Using past mistakes as a growth opportunity, analyzing whether or not it was our fault and consoling ourselves that it could have been worse will train us to regret less and better…”

In time, you realize that you are your own Commander and you begin to feel a sense of power. You can rise up and counterattack, casting out all those regrets the same way they came in. Now engaged, your mind has outmaneuvered your remorse.

As Henry David Thoreau advised: “…Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.” To live afresh is to be morally born again…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Considering the Avant-garde

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Photo Avante garde

It was 3 a.m. and I was sitting up in bed eating a banana when Mr. Wiz* returned from the bathroom. “…What are you doing?..” he asked with concern. “…Just something for personal reasons…” I responded, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. He knew, from previous experience, not to question any of my more unusual habits and decided it was in his best interest to just go back to sleep.

Between you and me, a banana is an almost immediate cure for heartburn. That or one-half teaspoon of mustard. I have more where that came from. The day I purchased a book about folk remedies was the day that my family sensed a shift in the usually well-hidden, quirky side of my personality.

They see it as a blending of natural medicine, folk remedies and old wive’s tales in a big witch’s caldron until it begins to ooze out of the top and engulf anyone brave enough to still be in its path. But, then I remind them about eating an apple a day or a bowl of chicken soup when ill and they are pacified…for the moment.

In the spirit of keeping Austin weird (the city’s slogan), since moving here, I pride myself on keeping up my polka dot collection, my oddities collection and now I find that I am also becoming the keeper of the more unusual potions, elixirs and remedies that I have come across.

Currently, I am singlehandedly taking on the cosmetic industry with a campaign to experiment with some do it yourself, at home remedies as part of my beauty regimen. Without frightening Mr. Wiz (who, I’m sure, is curious as to just what is taking place behind that closed bathroom door), let’s just say that apple cider vinegar, lemon juice and extra-virgin olive oil are not just for salads anymore, Moroccan Argan oil has other uses than as a dip for bread and facial exercises are the new face lifts. I’ve said too much, but you get the idea.

Little by little, I seem to be winning over my family as they hint for a possible solution to a current malady they are experiencing. Recent suggestions have taken toothpaste, Greek yogurt and duct tape out of their respective comfort zones and into an unknown realm.

Who knows? If we can naturally eradicate those little ailments that get under our skin, it might just remind us to occasionally try thinking out of the box and consider the unconventional alternative.

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

Celebrating Mom, Moxie and Mother’s Day

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Photo My Moxie Mom

When she was just 9 years old, she would awaken on her own, early Sunday mornings, dress in her best dress, grab the coins off the kitchen table that her mother had left for her and set out. Sometimes she would hop on 1 foot, hopscotch or skip all the way there. She’d attend church on her own and then stop at the local bakery to buy some buns for the family. The wonderful smell would propel her home and she’d run all the way, hoping to arrive while they were still warm and looking forward to the first bite and the jelly oozing down her chin.

One of the things that I love about JC* is her independent spirit. All her life, she’s never let the fact that she might have to venture out into the world solo stop her. It’s that sparkle in her eyes and that spring in her step that you first notice. This is probably the reason why the Austin bus drivers greet her by name as she boards and why she was selected out of the audience to be a part of the show at a Blue Man Group performance. When traveling alone on a group tour, she will tell you that at meal time, she first peruses the dining room and chooses the table with the most people laughing. This has led to wonderful friendships with women as far away as Australia.

Arm in arm with curiosity and spunk, she confidently heads into the unknown, the more unfamiliar, the better. She’s fun to be with and whether we are shopping for just the right earrings or exploring someplace new that she has discovered, she has the uncanny ability to make even the smallest experience exciting.

Her energy amazes me. It always makes me laugh when I ask her what she did on days that we aren’t together. She’ll start out by saying “…Not much…,” then rattle off a schedule that would warrant wheels being added to your daily planner. In recent years, thanks to her, I have mastered the flamenco, the Texas Two Step and line dancing. And just as I arrive home and am putting my dance shoes away, I can look forward to a text asking me if I want to join her on another adventure.

Her next foray is into the animal kingdom. She is now officially a volunteer at Austin Pets Alive. And while she is exerting her never-ending zest for life, there may be just enough time for me to take a nap before we’re off again together.

Happy Mother’s Day!

 

*Who’s who? See “Cast of Characters” on the “About” page.

 

Spring Cleaning: Body, Mind and Closet

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Photo Spring Cleaning

Every year, we would fall back into the same poorly orchestrated routine. Excited to “spring ahead,” each of the four of us teens would turn the clock ahead one hour on our arrival home late Saturday night. This would result in chaos for the next couple of days. Someone would wind up at church either a few hours too early or too late and we were never sure if we were eating Sunday brunch or Sunday dinner. Usually by Tuesday our lives would return back from Somoan Standard Time. No one seemed to want to change this practice, so we chalked it up to organized confusion (another family tradition) and life went on.

To me, spring has always meant a new beginning and I celebrate its brightness, its warmer weather and the coming of Easter by planning to start fresh. As it did back then, the first daffodils remind me that it’s time to get started. I know that, once a year, I need to venture where no man has gone before; into the dark recesses of the place that houses the wardrobe from where my style initiates: my closet.

It always begins with me asking myself “…Who am I?..” This is the point in the process where I look deep down into myself and question what I want my new image to be. All those visions of fashion, style and design in my head overwhelm me and I have to sit down on my closet floor to ward off dizziness (note to self: next year, remember to bring some sustenance). Cross legged and looking up at the clothing sorted by Item, then color on their perfectly aligned hangers, I tell myself that I will not let its well-organized arrangement intimidate me.

I’m feeling stronger now and make the decision that I want to up my game and go for an edgier style this time around. Coming from someone who, for years, wore hose every day of the summer, handbags that matched her shoes and white only after Memorial Day, I realize that edgier is a relative term and that this will be my personal version of the jazzy, new me.

I rev myself up and become a lean, mean, methodical machine. Music helps the process; chances are good that I will not be hypnotized by the rhythmic sound of the hangers gliding across the closet rod and bypass some business outfits that should have been retired years ago while I am rocking my signature dance moves and singing at the top of my lungs.

The range of emotions that evolve as I try on every item always startles me. Some get torn back off immediately while I mumble “…What was I thinking?..” Some are accessorized with jewelry and shoes and then torn off (same mumble). Out of respect, some get their last moment in the limelight, as I gaze in the mirror and reminisce about a special event before tearing them off too. I take a moment to pay homage to those articles that have withstood the test of time. I can depend on them to always give me the classic look I am going for.

I’ve lost track of time. I look around and I’m awe-struck to see all the shopping bags around me stuffed with the clothing that once held a prominent position as part of my wardrobe. At this point, I need to proceed with caution. This scenario can play out in two ways: I can either run the bags to the trunk of my car and drive directly to my choice of donation centers or I can decide that I might have missed some great Halloween costume options and decide to peruse each bag’s contents.

Seeking fortitude from closet lessons of the past, a light and airy sensation comes to mind. This leads to a feeling of confidence that I will now leave my home always feeling like a “ten”, having just delivered all my “1-9’s” to a better place. I rationalize that one woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure. Someone else’s personal statement might be made up of my fashion faux pas mixed with just the right amount of their panache.

My stomach is growling and I notice that it’s almost nightfall. I exit my closet a different person from when I entered it earlier that day. This yearly cathartic exercise in re-evaluating and letting go gets me off to another terrific start. It serves to remind me that it’s a beneficial practice to maintain, whether it involves apparel or any other parts of my life that may need a little tailoring.