HELP, I fear I am going mad. The fashion world is making all clothing styles smaller than usual. My washing machine seems to be shrinking everything else even those items I’ve never washed.
I hear footsteps in my bedroom. My clothes want to go back in the closet. Not simply because I stretch them to distraction. They whisper about my fickleness and they take it personally.
They are not wrong when they talk of me forgetting them whenever I purchase something new that does not cut off circulation.
It is true, I can love my outfit, not be seen without it for weeks, but alas, as soon as another catches my fancy and fits my fanny, well frankly, the others no longer exists in my memory.
Hello. My name is Jan and I am A CLOTHES SLUT.
At this moment a sailor outfit wants out. It claims white is not my color and it is quite militant about that. I have pleaded and cajoled but I know the rage it is experiencing is really from neglect. Aside from the fact that I just bought a big-boy combat shirt at an army surplus store and I am blinded by love for this kaki cookie, the sailor blouse is a size 6. I have not been a size 6 since, well since I was six!
I will loan it to my petite friend as a foster outfit, to live with her until I am able to use kale as my primary food source.
There is also noisy hostility coming from my neglected clothes. The rustling is deafening. Thus I am sleepless near Sevilla.
In addition, they purposely fall off hangars or play hide and seek when I am in a hurry.
Fortunately, I am now seeing a clothing counselor.
Dr. Plink, the shrink, (why they are called that I’ll never know since I am the same size since I began therapy) suggested I go on a journey to find myself. I packed my shirt and left a note for the clothes. I was on my way to me land.
Just a footnote here you may already know. Television makes us appear 10 pounds heavier. I have three.
Thirty pounds of an optical illusion of fake fat. Still, I got on a train for Katemoss Mountain to…