Confessions of a clothes hoarder with nothing to wear

There are several versions of me living inside my wardrobe, and most of them are considerably smaller than the woman paying the rent.

One is an XS who appears to have survived entirely on youth, good genetics and the belief that size zero was a legitimate life goal. Another is a respectable S who remained optimistic for several years. The current resident ranges from M to L, depending on the brand, the cut, the position of the moon and how aggressively the garment has been designed to destroy her self-esteem.

I grew up during an era when being petite was treated as a personal achievement. Women were expected to occupy as little physical space as possible while owning enough clothes to fill a small department store. Thanks to a good metabolism, I managed the first part without too much suffering. My commitment to shopping took care of the second. I bought XS dresses, tops, trousers and jackets with the confidence of someone who believed her body had signed a permanent contract.

My wardrobe became an archive of every trend I had briefly considered central to my identity. There are party dresses from parties I can no longer remember, jeans that could now cut off circulation to a vital organ, and tops requiring the upper-body dimensions of a twelve-year-old gymnast.

I keep them all because they carry memories. Some of those memories are extremely vague. I may have worn a particular dress once, somewhere, with people whose names have disappeared from my mind. Giving it away still feels like erasing a significant chapter of my personal history. Apparently, my autobiography is written in polyester.

Shoes present an even more serious problem. I have never required a practical reason to buy them. If a pair catches my eye, I immediately imagine an entire future together. I see dinners, holidays, glamorous entrances and admiring glances. In reality, I wear them twice, develop a blister and return them to the cupboard, where they live out their days like retired film stars waiting for a comeback.

A few years ago, I reluctantly parted with more than 100 pairs. Even writing that sentence causes a small internal collapse. I packed them into cargo and sent them to my home country, where their eventual fate remains unknown. I have never asked. They may have found loving homes. They may be walking around Goa without me. They may have been distributed among neighbours and relatives. Ignorance has protected me from the truth.

My husband once tried to intervene. He would point to something untouched for years and ask whether I still needed it. This was an amateur mistake. Need has never played any role in my relationship with clothing. I would explain that the sequinned jacket might become useful, perhaps during an unexpected invitation to perform with a glam-rock band. He appealed to my conscience, storage limitations and basic logic. I responded by rearranging the cupboard and creating the illusion of space. He has now accepted that the wardrobe belongs to a higher legal authority.

Age eventually entered the conversation. I remained a comfortable S for a while, then 2023 arrived and my body began expanding its operations. I spent the first phase in denial, blaming brands, fabric, laundry settings and an international conspiracy to reduce waistbands.

Eventually, I changed the narrative. I was no longer trying to stay slim. I was building muscle. This sounded purposeful and athletic, which was far more appealing than admitting my trousers had become hostile. Lifting weights also gave me an excellent explanation for buying larger clothes. Tops needed room around my chest and arms. Oversized clothing became a fitness requirement. I embraced M and occasionally L with the solemnity of someone receiving a medical diagnosis.

This has created a wardrobe containing garments for bodies spanning several decades and multiple belief systems. The XS section represents historical fiction. The S section represents optimism. The M and L section represents breathable reality.

I know I will never return to my old size. Even if I lose weight, my shoulders and arms have other plans. Those tiny tops would now require a rescue team and a generous amount of cooking oil. I have called companies that collect unwanted clothes. I have asked about timings and collection areas. Then they ask when I would like them to come, and I suddenly behave as if the connection has dropped.

The sensible solution is to let go. I understand this intellectually. Emotionally, I remain attached to a dress I last wore when phones still had buttons. For now, everything stays. My current clothes fight for space with my former selves, my imaginary future occasions and several pairs of shoes awaiting their cinematic return. I open the wardrobe every morning, survey the full history of my poor decisions and announce that I have absolutely nothing to wear.