Confessions of a Thriftaholic

I have a few confessions to make.

The first is that I've been seriously bumming about how much I've been putting Operation Sparkle on the back burner lately—things have been so crazy trying to simultaneously prepare for the fair (it takes a lot of time to make enough glitter letters for our signs) and putting together the preview issue of C.L.A.P. (so it will be available at the fair) that I've been straddling a very thin line between being the most productive I have ever been and having a nervous break down. Things have been so busy that I actually had to turn down an opportunity to go thrifting with Molly yesterday.

Which not only breaks my heart (and spirit), but it also brings me to my next confession.

I have too many clothes.

Yesterday, Tara stood in my bedroom doorway, unable to get past the mounds of clothing blocking her entrance to the room, and again kept insisting that I was a hoarder. While I refuse to believe that (while Tara argues there are different kinds of hoarders, I maintain that a hoarder is a person who makes a habit of buying ten of whatever useless plastic item they can find in the clearance bin at their local Walmart), I admit that I have a slight...issue on my hands.

It appears as though having a blog devoted to thrifting + a job a resale shop + strange emotional attachments to clothing (like the stained, faded, once-electric yellow, American Apparel tank top I can't bear to part with because it was my favorite shirt for years and is connected to particularly found memories of a wild weekend at Fire Island with some of my favorite people (like Laurie))=too many clothes to count.



Here's a look at my attempt to organize a portion of my clothing. So far, I've removed about eight large bags for resale and donation and one for winter storage and I still can't walk to my bed.

So...what does one do in this sort of situation? A thrifting hiatus? I'd rather be dead. The only solution seems to be a re-evaluating of my fashion priorities. In other words, a good face-to-face with my style self, revisiting of my wishlist (add a long, embroidered coat to that, please) and figuring out what I want my current look to be. But I'm still not getting rid of that tank top.

Amidst all of this, there is hope. Yesterday, I found myself so exhausted from a day of running errands (nothing like waiting until the last possible moment to finish your taxes) that I decided to "treat" myself to fuchsia lipstick and black nail polish* from Target. As it turns out, they were the perfect complement to my, once again, strange gothy-spring outfit** that I was forced to wear when I couldn't locate the shirt and jeans I actually wanted to wear in the clothing mess that is currently my bedroom:



Brown and black print button-down cropped blouse (from the Halloween bootique. I love this top).



My new(ish) navy wool cardigan I got thrifting with Jake, which is fastly becoming my favorite sweater (at some point in the day, I took it off and shook it in Chris' face exclaiming that it was J. Crew and awesome)



My black crack-finger jeans



and my lace-up black booties.

This outfit, plus my new make-up, meant that when I got home last night after a viewing of the Wicker Man*** in celebration of the full moon, I still looked (and felt) good. And this, my friends, is why it is all worth it!

*/**I really don't know what is happening to me. Not even alt-rock loving teenage Holly would have willingly purchased black nail polish.
***The original film, of course. Don't be foolish.