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Making Room (and Closet Space) for Love

2025-02-05 17:43:28 Source:oxc Classification:General

I’ve lived alone and in the same place for over six years now. I’m accustomed to my dresser, the bedroom closet with three shelves, and the surprisingly roomy drawer that sits underneath it. The space beneath my bed is packed with dust-covered boxes, and the coat rack is teetering on the brink of collapse. My home is full of my clothes. It’s bursting with them. I’ve never known it any other way.

But lately things have been getting crowded. Half of my top drawer has been cleared for Alex and her shirts, her underwear, her socks. Her face washes and makeup are perched on top of my random assortment of grooming products in the medicine cabinet, like a Jenga tower that's one move from toppling. Her tampons stumble out of the under-the-bathroom-sink cabinet every time I open it. They’re the crowding and happy reminders that we’re together, we’re in it, we’re in love, and that while we don’t live together on paper, we do in practice. We're in the “but Alex spends most of her time at your place anyway, right?” stage of our relationship. Most nights her tote bag with a change of clothes sits by my door.

A few months ago, while having some pre-flight drinks at a cheesy JFK restaurant, I floated the idea of moving in together. There was the logical argument for it: less rent, more time together, and an ending lease. More importantly, there was also the emotional part of it: We both wanted to do it. By the time her boxes arrive, we’ll have been together for almost a year and a half, but we’ve known each other for over seven. Also, by the time her boxes arrive, the closet must be half-cleared, the drawers embiggened, and the coat rack lightened.

In short: Fuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkk.

Making room for a love would mean saying goodbye to so many others—the wild coats of my early twenties (like the double-breasted wool coat with a Game of Thrones–esque fur collar), the put-together and on-top-of-it sweaters I picked up in my late twenties (a collection of neatly folded navy cashmere crewnecks), the shirts from college I still think of (I'll never forget you, AXO formal) but know better than to go back to. They sit and stare at me like a 287-week-old Instagram you can’t stop looking at. They’re an image of a person I was, reminding me of things I’ve done and things I haven’t.

“There’s a lightness that comes with a relationship, an understanding that at least one person sees beyond your double-breasted wool coat with coyote-fur collar and croc detailing.”

When Bill Cunningham described clothes as “the armor for everyday life,” it struck a deep chord with me. That’s how these things always functioned in my life—their image protected and projected who I wanted to be. When I was single, they all seemed to have more power. There was this whole persona (exacerbated by my career in fashion and publishing) I felt compelled to project—youthful, tasteful, confident, successful, and handsome. The tailored and patrician coats, the not-too-recognizable designer pieces, and the expensive shoes all fit that bill. When I was alone, it felt like I had to present myself to the world in this way—the New York City careless-but-cool way.

But now, with Alex and her impending move, things have changed. There’s a lightness that comes with a relationship, an understanding that at least one person sees beyond your double-breasted wool coat with coyote-fur collar and croc detailing. There’s someone who likes the way your butt looks in your old track pants more than in your perfectly worn-in Acne jeans. Through that gaze, the endless rotation of clothes I wear has slowed to a trickle of black T-shirts and black jeans, the same navy blue coat, and the same old denim jacket. It’s an equal but opposite reaction: being locked down gives you freedom.

So now these piles of clothes have migrated from my drawers to my floors. A pile for Housing Works in a laundry basket, stacked high with T-shirts I haven’t touched in months. There’s a VIP section for Grailed items: high-end outerwear and every last bit of Saint Laurent I care to part with. And lastly, a box to Ina for consignment.

As I posted a few of the things I was getting rid of on Instagram, a few friends would message back “noooooo! not the tee!” or “omg you’re selling this coat!!!” or even “we had a lengthy discussion about your selling of fashion / is everything ok jj?” And of course everything is fine, but the clothes are part of the past. They’re not current in every sense of the word (in season or in personality), and room has to be made for the future, a far more exciting prospect than the off-chance I’ll wear a calfskin Phillip Lim leather jacket I haven’t touched in years.

Everybody knows that tired joke that men let themselves go when they get into a relationship. The punchline is a bloated gut in gray sweatpants and a greasy hoodie—a man who has essentially given up. As I ship my beloved clothes across the country and grow increasingly comfortable spending my weekends with Alex in Umbros, I wonder if I’m walking that line. Then I remember what it was like to be alone in my apartment full of designer clothes.

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