My closet was ridiculous. “Cluttered” is a mild term—more like a black hole for outdated fashion and dust bunnies. The day I broke down and organized it, I unearthed artifacts from my honeymoon a decade ago—hey, beach sandals?! With Jamaican sand still stuck in the grooves, how nostalgic!
Shelves held neglected totes stuffed with diapers, college sweatshirts, and a gym bag full of yoga gear. I haven’t taken a yoga class since 2003.
“Mom, my nukkie!” My five-year-old discovered her old pacifier tucked in a purse pocket.
“Eeew! Don’t touch that!” I tossed the nuk into a garbage bag slumped on the floor, alongside a stack of clothes for charity.
Roomy clothes—affectionately called my fat pants.