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Our next act of theft: a real walk-in closet

We are, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, in the process of renovating our bathroom. This bathroom has made me insane since we stole it from our daughters, six years ago, and when the renovations began, we discovered that it has been steadily leaking, apparently forever.

I don’t miss it at all, but unfortunately, it is inextricably intertwined with my closet, which will also be transformed in the move – to something smaller. 

My provisional solution has been to evacuate all my personal belongings to our son’s room, on the theory that he rarely comes home, and when he does, he’s not likely to notice that his room is festooned with his mother’s stuff.

You could probably hide the 51st Airborne Division in there and he wouldn’t notice, which is why I’ve decided that our next act of theft is going to be to steal his room and make it my closet.  

I have not had a total closet clean-out since the Great Skunk Disaster of ’06. Let’s just say, it’s eye-opening.

I did not know, for example, that I had so many shoes, or that they were all so startlingly similar. It’s embarrassing. I seem to lack imagination in the foot department. 

The other eye-opening thing is how little of my wardrobe I actually wear.

When it all gets dragged out, I am forced to confront the sweater I sort-of liked in the store, the shirt in the color that makes me look like I have food poisoning, and the jeans that would be comfortable if I were seven feet tall and had the circumference of a telephone pole.

I am not moving this stuff into the new closet when the time comes, because if it hasn’t been on my body in years, it’s not going to be happy there now.

Of course, I may not move anything back. I LIKE having all my stuff spread out in the Boy’s room. It’s so … easy. There’s plenty of light, plenty of room to stand back and wonder if that shirt is the right shade for those pants.

A basket of scarves and hats sits ready at hand on the dresser, instead of poised precariously on a shelf, where I risked a head injury every time I wanted some neckwear.

The kid’s mini-fridge holds a generous assortment of purses that were, in my previous closet, a cross between an ambush and an avalanche. My boring shoes can stand in ranks instead of lurking in a spider-infested pile in a dark corner. 

The Boy’s bed is covered in miscellany – hats, gloves, book bags, tote bags, umbrellas in various states of disrepair, and a strange box with butterfly-shaped cutouts that I can’t get rid of because it was a gift.

I don’t really need to have these things readily accessible, but it is comforting to know that, should I need a tote bag in a hurry, I can lay my hands on several. The same thing is true for my hardback Calvin and Hobbes anthology, which I cleverly hid from the kids and only rediscovered when I moved some shoeboxes.

Yes, as a closet, this room is just about perfect. In fact, it has only one serious flaw, beyond the fact that it technically belongs to someone else.

My newly discovered walk-in closet smells like, well, a college male: a strong note of sweat sock with overtones of cigar and stale pizza. I do not want to go to work each morning smelling faintly of eau de dorm, but I have a plan.

I’m betting that the addition of a dozen or so floral sachets will take care of the odor problem, and, if I’m careful in their deployment, they will ensure that I will not have to give up my awesome new space when the Boy comes home for vacations.

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