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Beneath crystal chandeliers, stacks of clothing were neatly laid out on black draped buffet tables. Pop music blared while a man took publicity photos of women pawing through the garments. Periodically, a volunteer swept through, fussing and folding, rearranging by color. Hosted in a glitzy hotel by the non-profit, "Fashion Fights Poverty," this clothing swap was far more formal than others I've attended. Nonetheless the premise was the same: Bring along your unwanted clothes, add them to the pile and take whatever you want from other folks' rejected threads. Personally I seem to bring more than I take, but no one is keeping score. Everything left at the end of the day is donated.
At home beforehand, I tried on everything I owned, marching back and forth to the hall mirror. Had any of my housemates seen me, they would have assumed I was suffering form a first-class bout of "I have nothing to wear syndrome." Most of us apparently wear 20% of our wardrobe 80% of the time. This means we can get by with a lot fewer clothes and still look fabulous. The swap served as the perfect catalyst for me to dig deep and make room for new outfits.
I made no assumptions. My green sweater with the frill trim always looked attractive. But viewed with fresh eyes I realized it had become a little loose and suddenly my love faded. The unflattering trousers and shapeless shirts were easy to donate. Harder to abandon were the embroidered 60's blouse I picked up in Miami and the shiny top from Costa Rica I wore on my 27th birthday. They were wearable snapshots and I remember the days I bought each with fondness. But they simply didn't look good on me anymore which of course is why I never wore them and they were relegated to the back of the closet. This was a big old lesson in letting go. Here is something from a particular time and place, but I've moved on and the shirt has stayed there.
What do we have in our metaphorical closets that no longer suit us? Juvenile slang, outdated anxieties, unbalanced friendships. I've recently overcome my fear of biking in DC. I'm not sure how I did it exactly. I always wanted to be one of the cool kids, peddling right up to the crosswalk at red lights, ready to shoot across the intersection ahead of the cars. But in the past I was a nervous cyclist and rarely took my bike anywhere.
A few weeks ago I biked to Georgetown for the first time. Three miles from my house, the awkward route by public transportation means cycling takes half as long. As well as saving time and money, biking makes me feel more independent, it's good exercise and it's fun. But friends had been telling me this for years, so what took me so long to pull this old anxiety out of my wardrobe, dust it off and hold it up to the light? It seems I simply wasn't ready before.
At the clothing swap I unloaded my garments and came away with a few choice pieces including a pair of silk, pinstriped trousers and a flowing summer skirt. Pleased with my finds, I biked home to Mount Pleasant.
- Washington, D.C.
As a kid, I spent Independence Day watching the Larkspur parade and fireworks at the Marin County Fair. All those years I lived in England, the day was marked solely by an email from my mom describing my Dad's band concert and barbecues. It sounded like fun, though to be honest, Halloween and Thanksgiving were the holidays I really missed. Last Saturday was my first 4th of July in the States since 2001 and I celebrated with a walk in the woods.
Jayne, our ferociously athletic 60-year-old Meetup.com leader, was slightly daunted when twenty-two of us showed up for the hike. Once, one of her wards got lost on this very trail and she had to call the police. And that was with a much smaller group. "Stay with someone who has a map," Jayne said. Our route took us along ten miles of trails in Virginia's Shenandoah National Park, about an hour and a half drive from my home in Washington, D.C.
Trekking in Nepal last November strengthened my leg muscles. A less desirable side effect is after the Himalayas, most scenery gets demoted from beautiful to...pleasant. Folks say Shenandoah is at its best during the fall, but this time of year I saw nothing but green, deciduous forest. Piney Branch River slices across the trail and several times we gingerly picked our way over rocks, only to cross back minutes later. The river was one of the most visually interesting features and it wasn't even especially attractive. I quickly decided I was there for the exercise and conversation.
While climbing the steepest stretch of "Little Devil's Stairs," I chatted with a southern lady about horses. The path leveled off but there was no view. However, I got a thrill seeing my first sign for the legendary 2,175 mile Appalachian Trail. I felt an instant connection with Carrie who wants to hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and we chatted for most of the day.
Another hiker, Ross from Guildford, works in D.C.'s British embassy. Not meeting many Britons out here, I wanted him to know my connection to his island nation which was my adopted home. I told him I lived in London for seven years and miss the slang.
"Bollocks," he said in nonsensical agreement.
"It's the dog's bollocks," I said, equally out of context. I miss these words.
"I've been picking up new slang though," Ross said. "I watch 'The Wire' and I'm learning Baltimore drug-runner slang."
Jayne told us to keep an eye out for the old cemetery, though she might have been a bit disturbed by several of us hunkering down between the gravestones to eat, a la Day of the Dead. We shared our food, trading trail mix for breaded chicken. A man in a baseball hat offered watermelon with lime juice.
"We shouldn't tell the others we stopped for lunch," Ross said.
"Yeah," Carrie said. "They're probably waiting for us in the parking lot."
"We shouldn't tell them for two reasons," I said, looking around the tombstones.
We spotted one of our group hovering outside the gate.
"Hey, want some food?" Yelled the woman who made the chicken. The man shook his head, though I'm not sure if he objected to the cemetery itself or our location for an impromptu picnic.
"Bollocks?" Carrie asked in the car back. The hike was a success and no one got lost. "Am I even saying that right?"
"You're saying it fine." I said.
"What does it actually mean?"
"Balls," I said. "But 'the dog's bollocks' is a good thing. I guess because not many dogs still have their balls."
"Kind of like the bees' knees."
That night, I relaxed on the grass with a college friend, Capitol Building at our backs, phallic Monument ahead. The National Mall was laden with families, many wearing American flag t-shirts. Not my style, but I guess this is the day.
Fireworks exploded. The crowds voiced appreciation with predictable oohs and ahhs. I silently enjoyed the show. A lone firefly blinked a tiny display of its own. The novelty of fireworks in July. Not Guy Fawkes Night, not New Year's Eve. It was a warm evening and afterwards I walked home, legs aching.
- Washington, D.C.
