Goldilocks

On a trip into my closet, I discovered a grouping of beige pants in a corner. Working from home lends itself to yoga pants and tank tops. When I travel to the local coffee shop, I tend to hop into jeans or a light summer dress. On the occasional interview, I pull out the New York Girl's favorite piece also known as the Little Black Dress. When I do want to wear pants on an interview, I go for my wide leg gray pinstriped pair. The three beige pieces sit untouched and lonely between the lumpy gray sweater that I have yet to take to Goodwill and a set of empty hangers.

I've decided recently that instead of buying new clothes, I need to become better at snazzing up what I already own. (Yes, I fully realize that I just said snazzing.)

After performing a close inspection of each pair by skipping around my apartment in them, I decided that only one was worth saving. The khaki color seems to be spiked with gray. A faint pink pinstripe sits there waiting to picked up by the right top. The leg is not wide, not straight, but just the right amount of flared. In the end, they're perfectly nice pants. Versatile. So why had they been neglected?

I remember exactly when I bought these pants. Almost three years ago now while casually making my way through a Gap*. I had to go to a job fair that I was dreading, and I couldn't stand anything that was currently in my closet. To me, these pants smell of frustration and resume paper. They still hold onto that scent after three years, two cities, various jobs and my mother ironing the life out of them. So I pushed them in the back. Trying to forget everything they reminded me of. But it might just be time to reclaim them.

*Most of my clothes are bought during similar wanderings. Whenever I go shopping with an exact purpose in mind, I either don't buy anything, or I buy something that I never wear. My closet is littered with planned shopping casualties.