It didn't give me joy

But I purged my wardrobe anyway

Of all the challenges I’ve navigated in the last few months—from figuring out the  healthcare system to finding paper towels that don’t disintegrate in your hand—the most arduous topic also is the most superficial: fashion. 

We had to downsize from a four-bedroom house to an apartment of unknown size, so we decided to each take just two suitcases and a backpack on the flight to France. In the months before our move, I systematically sold or donated more than half of my wardrobe. It was agonizing. While I was thrilled to make a tidy sum from ThreadUp and to pass well-loved clothes on to Goodwill, I acutely felt the loss of my Irish-knit sweater, my voluminous yoga wardrobe and cowboy boots. I had to get rid of them. I was so eager to succeed, and to conquer my embarrassingly indulgent shopping habit, that I accidentally donated my winter coat. 

I edited it all down to a manageable capsule wardrobe, albeit with a few booster engines. I felt lighter, less encumbered, less anxious about living with a tiny French closet or, worse, renting a place without a bedroom closet which, unfortunately, is a thing here. 

Two days before the flight I staged our bedroom for packing. While Don watched his last Eagles game on Philly soil, I rolled, folded and squeezed my wardrobe into the first suitcase. It was an enormous task, not at all like packing for a trip when you take just enough face moisturizer for two weeks. My toiletries were full-size. 

As I turned toward the second, smaller case I recognized my tragic miscalculation: No way was I going to fit the rest of my clothes and shoes and curl cream into that small satchel. I panicked. Hyperventilated. Cried. Then I called Don (I waited until halftime, whaddya think?) to ask for help. 

More has to go, he said. “Just get rid of it.” He handed me a trash bag. I got on the floor and, in a scene that was part fervor, part desperation, frantically threw half of the pile into the bag. There was no Kondo-ing a cardigan by holding it up to ask if it gave me joy. I just trashed it.

In France I have about a quarter of the clothes I owned in the US. When we stored our summer clothes in the basement garage, Don and I together filled about 75 percent of one large Rubbermaid box. Last year I needed four of them all to myself. 

Ironically, we scored an apartment with a small dressing (walk-in closet)-–just for me. Some of the shelves in there are still empty. You might be thinking, ‘Yay! Now you can buy all new clothes in France. Clothes! In France!’  

But no. Although the booster engines on my capsule wardrobe have long since been jettisoned into that trash bag, I will not buy new duds until the old ones wear out, or a gaping hole reveals itself in my wardrobe. (See, erroneously-donated winter coat.) 

I’m thinking maybe the French lifestyle slowly is seeping in, like butter seeping into the layers of a flaky croissant. Which, in the case of my lifestyle–and most certainly baked goods–is a good thing. Life in a French apartment means I purchase only enough food to fit in my small refrigerator and launder only what fits on the drying rack. I don’t stock up on toilet paper, and I buy just one bottle of wine at a time. (OK, sometimes two.) 

It also means that I don’t need 12 black sweaters and 21 pairs of shoes. At first, that felt unsettling, scary even. You mean I won’t be able to choose between the v-neck, turtleneck, tunic-length or cable knit? Then I realized that at least 10 of those sweaters were just extra weight. (For the sake of full disclosure and clarity, I am not counting the black sweater vest, because technically it is a vest, so I kept it.) Remarkably, not having to make the neckline decision when choosing a black sweater is quite liberating. Who needs all that extra baggage?