We spent the better part of this weekend ripping out my collapsing closet, and I mean literally collapsing, as in I opened the door earlier this week and every blouse/sweater/clutch/pair of jeans/shoes I owned was on a definite downward trajectory.
At first I worried I was seeing things, or perhaps I was dealing with a brain tumor situation (I have a bit of the hypochondria friends), but no, it was just, you know, the hardware (shelves, rods, et al) completely detaching itself from the drywall. Good times. But hey, on the upside, health crisis averted. (Whew.)
So we (and by we I mean Bryan) ripped the whole thing out. And faced with a completely blank slate, I convinced him to not only replace the sad white particleboard shelves with pretty, earthy unfinished wood but to also throw on a new coat of paint and switch out all the rods and hardware. (I have a really good/patient/kind/loving husband.)
Never mind that my clothes are jammed into sundry closets that are not my own, and my handbags are in my bathtub (don't ask) and my shoes... you know I can honestly say I don't know where the hell my shoes are. What matters is that in a week (or three -- B is awesome but slow) my closet will be a blank slate of clean, pristine awesomeness.
You know getting that bad boy in order is one of my goals this year, and the great closet rebuild is inspiring some serious next level action. I'm getting ruthless here people. Only the good stuff is going back in. I'm in take no prisoners mode.
I'm getting inspired by going through all of Jeana Sohn's genius past Closet Visits. I'm fastidiously studying Roxanne and Kayten and Sue and Momo and all the other cool girls with thoughtfully edited, interesting but wearable wardrobes, hoping some of it rubs off on me.
Until then there will be painting and fishing handbags out of the bathtub and trying to find my shoes.
Wish me luck.