shoestring gringa

The Black Dress, oil on canvas

What with the chronic scarcity of books here in casa shoestring, I spend lots of time reading on the internet.  One group of blogs I follow is by women who write about personal style, with a subset of women my age (let’s say older) writing about personal style.  They often discuss clothing, but also life in general, what used to be called in former times the art of living:  what this consists of, why so few people seem to either care about it or achieve it nowadays, cultural conflicts surrounding the pursuit of it, why Europeans seem to do it so much better, and what makes it so ironically, maddeningly elusive in the good old consumer-goods-saturated USA.

It’s been nice to find some like-minded souls out there interested in creating beauty in their lives, and I click through their blogs with interest every morning.   We have things in common, at least we seem to have read a lot of the same books.   Although that genre of books, on reflection, seems more focused on avoiding affronts to aesthetics than creating beauty… but I digress.   The books contain some helpful rules and principles, which we’ve all imbibed dutifully.

When it comes to the practical achievement of our shared ideals, however, I must part company with my cyber-sisters, what with living in Mexico and all.  For example, one dictum to be found in all the how-to books and a favorite among the faithful:  Edit your wardrobe ruthlessly.  If you have not worn it in the last year (or two), throw it out!

Oops, can’t do that!  Here in Mexico, we dare not get rid of anything, ever, from used mayonnaise jars to old tires.  These things — all things –  are not so easy to come by, and once their original purpose is done with, sooner or later they’ll surely come in useful for something else.  I think Mexico must be the recycling capital of the world.  Nothing ever gets wasted here.  I’ve always found this highly admirable; apart from the obvious virtue of avoiding waste,  the creativity which results appeals to the artist in me.

So, clothes.  I don’t get rid of them, unless they’re really in shreds, and then they get a decent funeral.  This doesn’t mean to say I use the entire stash at any given time; far from it.  What I do is, at each change of season, go through it all and pick out whatever looks interesting for the upcoming months.  Sometimes I might remodel a piece or dye it a different color.  Despite the fact I’ve had most of the stuff for years, there are always delightful surprises waiting, items whose existence I’ve totally forgotten (memory loss does have its uses).  Once sorted, the rest goes back into the footlocker with a couple of mothballs, to lie fallow for another year.  The clothes of the season currently ending are stored in a separate box.

Using these pieces as a foundation, I can fill in any gaps with a few new items, usually basics like worn-out t-shirts, or some accessory to pull things together.  My side of our tiny clothes rack and my clothes drawers remain organized and uncrowded, my mind uncluttered by extraneous stuff.  But reassured all the same by the knowledge it will be there the day I or someone else needs it, a day as easy to imagine as mañana here in Mexico.