Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

It is 9:19 PM and I’m without a single thought for today’s NaBloPoMo post.

I’ve done cats, cars, mental health, Simon and Garfunkel, a Q&A with the Assistant Secretary of Health for the US Department of Health and Human Services, Thanksgiving, reviewed two shows, previewed another, and more. I invoked math, then railed at the gods. It has been quite a month for being only November 14.

Today, I began unpacking my winter clothing. Not a sexy topic, for sure. But some of my winter clothing was in a box from the winter months I was homeless living with friends. Some of it is crammed into my closet that I haven’t opened since I returned home. And the rest is tucked away in old dressers in the attic – my go to storage space.

I found my jeans, that is cool. I only have three pairs (I think) because I mostly wear sweatpants and leggings in the winter. Leggings are for fancy things and when the weather is warmish. Leggings typically don’t have pockets so not always the practical choice. But leggings with a shirred scoop neck tunic? And some cute boots with whimsical socks hidden beneath? Come on. That’s just saying “Take me to the matinee and then for sushi!” Pockets be damned.

But mostly I wear sweatpants. I have far too many pairs according to my friends. What can I say? I like color plus I found a great fit for my hips at Old Navy so I bought all of them. That was a few years ago, but they still fit like a dream – cozy, but roomy; cute but practical pockets because they are ‘mens’ clothing. Bah.

I keep my sweatpants beind a door in my chifforobe. I pile them up neatly and promise myself that I will definitely take the pair on the top of the pile, not riffle through and mess up my pile. Oh, how many times I’ve stomped all over the promise.

Each day, I wake up and say to myself in a firm tone “Take the pair on the top of the pile and find a cute coordinating top. Not too matchy, matchy but fun.” My problem, like my pitching arm, is that I suck at follow through. You gotta rotate your shoulder you pitch or it is wasted effort. Instead, I rotate my neatly piled sweatpants like a wringer washer until I find what I want. Not what I think I need.

I definitely have too many sweatshirts. But – hear me out – that’s because of the cats. Each morning, I go to the colony feeding stations and usually forget to put treats in the official cat folx treat bag. So I cram them into my pockets along with catnip. When I come home and carelessly toss my sweatshirt onto the coat wrack, there’s an immediate rush by the resident cats to sniff my pockets. Cat drool + catnip remnants + whatever they drag my sweatshirt through as they remove it from the hook as I’m watching ‘General Hospital’ usually means I need a clean sweatshirt. Repeat, seven days a week. So it is not my fault. I’m feeding homeless cats and supporting the arts.

When I do slide open that closet door, a giant comforter crammed in for lackof storage will tumble out, forcing me to wrap my arms around it and put somewhere else. Then I’ll look at a timecapsule of my life before. Before some bad things happened. It was August so there’s probably summer and winter clothing in there. Some shoes (I can’t find my black Doc Martens) and belts and dresses. Who knows?

As long as I leave that door shut even with the comforter pressed against the part where it bends, threatening to explode out and force me to deal with the ramifications, then I am okay. I didn’t have access to that closet last winter. I didn’t have access to my attic drawers. I didn’t have my Doc Marten boots or my swingy cape for wearing to theaters (doubles as a lap blanket.) To obtain anything, according to the Court, I had to describe exactly where it was located. I couldn’t just go into the spaces with my stuff and retrieve what I needed. I had to remember and so I went without a lot of things I would have liked to have.

When my father died, I had to remember where I had last hung my funeral appropriate clothing.

Everything that went with me during my months of homelessness has been purified by survival and sharing a laundry room with two teenage boys. Now I have to deal with the pressing issue of the closet capsule and I don’t want to do that. I can get by just fine. I’m strong and resilient and too old to worry what I wear.

Except … sometimes you wake up and reach for the pile of neatly stacked clothes, then say ‘fuck it’ because you WANT the green shirt or the shirred scoop neck tunic paired with the boyfriend cardigan and push away the thoughts about fast fashion because you have to think about, enough pain, enough bewilderment.

And they you have to refold your clothing to get 8028 pairs of sweatpants into a slot designed for like nine pairs. Creative folding and a lot of shoving. I put in my retail slog at Payless Shoes and Hills so I have no idea how to fold clothing like the cool kids who worked at The Gap.

I think tomorrow I will wear a pair of Barbie pink sweatpants, my favorite Air Supply tee shirt, and a pink zippered hoodie. I’ll walk past that closet, give it a little nudge with my hip to keep it closed, then go downstairs to forget the cat treats.

Lord help me if I have to write about hair scrunchies and my purse switching rituals this month … you’d be in for a whimsical treat. But if you think I have a lot of sweatpants, Sarah, my collection of hair ties will probably end our friendship …

This is one of my favorite Air Supply songs, both the original from 1979 and this version when they are both in their sixties. The acoustic version captures the nuances of the guitar and their harmonies. I’ve always had a big crush on Graham Russell. He’s definitely a silver fox. Worth putting on leggings and cute boots to see maybe one final time …

Okay, this hit 1000 words so I can wrap it up.