Effin' laundry day

I cannot imagine how it is that I wear the same 12 outfits over and over like a cartoon strip character, and yet cannot wade through enough of my walk in to figure out what goes to the laundromat and what stays at home for a different day that I am feeling more ambitious.

Certainly something has to give. It's probably time to toss the jeans that aren't going to fit me again even if they did look so cute when I was 89 lbs. If they fit me again, it means I am in a fit of postpartum hysteria and eating every third day. I do not want those pants to fit me again, I do not want 2004 back, I do not want to be 89 lbs of fear and depression and breastfeeding. I can probably get rid of those jeans, even though when they did fit, they looked cute.

And sweaters... I have always had a problem with sweaters. I dress like a dirty trollop and that's all there is to it, but sometimes I like the option of covering up those two quivering scoops of flesh. I know there is in all honesty nothing more inherently womanly or motherly than the very breasts a child is meant to nurse at, but many a mother may beg to differ, and I admit it, I let those boobie-shunning bibs of shame sweaters have become for me live in my purse for in case I run across just such a woman. However: How many bibs of shame do I really neeeed in April? Couldn't I cut it down the way that one does a belt to, say, 1 brown, one black, one white? That should cover all ground, no? Or rather, all breast? Do I really need the brown one with the pencil stripes because it makes my hair color look cute, the one that doesn't stay up on one shoulder because it lets me alternate between tart and curt with blindingly manipulative ease, the button down green green cropped sweater with the short sleeves because in a pinch Morgan can put it on, the cut-off flash-dance one just because I love it, the gray striped one that I got from one of those adorable basement boys in high school that he still probably doesn't know I have since I quit school the next month and never have seen him again, the one I bought my ex boyfriend but took with me when getting out of his car after friend-lunch one day when I found out he let his new girlfriend have it after we broke up last year, the maternity sweater that I don't want to store because what if I'm wrong and some day I decide I really DO want another child, the 4 Morgan is waiting to grow into, the one that I know I'm going to grow into any day now, the long mesh one that will never be in style again but I don't care because it makes me feel beautiful so I wear it around the house all the time anyway...

No. All of this... all of this, I do not need.

The jeans? Yes, I do need all 12 pairs. The shorts, yes. 3 micro mini-shorts, one black, one white, one brown. The same of micro mini-skirt. Brown, black, white. Every tank top I own, every single one, gets millage also. The socks... somehow, I cannot find the socks. The bras? A knotted tangle of straps and hooks, varying from a small C to a large D, in 32, 34, and 36 from various stages of nursing, postpartum depression, weening, weight gain, push up results, etc. I am wearing one of the 2 I got on clearance at TJ maxx, and the other is in the laundry-bag. One is brown, and one is black-- in bras it seems, I do not care for a white.. Though I'm certain there are a few of those amidst the bra-ball in the closet too.

Something must be done, this is the bottom line. In the time it has taken me to list this (yes, I realize a blog and a list are to normal people different things-- but what normal person has named the bra ball in their closet, I ask you that.), it has started to rain, and I won't be doing laundry today after all.

I'm glad I'm freakishly attractive, it's easier being dumb in a world you're beautiful in I've found.