Curator

This morning, while listening to a Pandora station that flitted between The National, Noah and the Whale and Arcade Fire, I sat on the floor fighting sneezes and sorting through piles of clothes in search of my fall pieces. It was a calming way to spend a rainy morning.

I spend most of September fighting the urge to buy an entirely new wardrobe. Sweaters and coats and boots seem to call out to me as I wander through stores. As the years have passed, I’ve gotten better at ignoring these bank account draining impulses. But every fall some things need to be discarded while others need to be found.

I made a little list in my head. In front of me were the minis in corduroy and denim and wool. Tights in pink and mustard and metallic silver. The many pairs in black and gray. More argyle knee-highs than I remembered owning.  Skinny black cords. A faux-wrap black sweater and a simple white v-neck one. The gray, green and black sweater dresses.

There were obvious gaps, even if I’d only made it halfway through the hunt. The sweater search never materialized last winter as I instead settled on layering. I could do with another pair of cords to compliment the cadre of denim that I own.

Shorter boots would nicely offset my knee-high pairs. A pair of non-denim, non-cord pants, an item I can’t remember purchasing in at least the past three years due to an allergy to chinos and the reality of working at casual workplaces, creative workplaces, or no workplaces at all, were likely a necessity at this point.

Flat oxfords could prove a nice, cold weather alternative to my ballet flats.

But I eventually tired of thinking about what was necessary. It was rainy and cold. August, the worst month of the year, was moving at too slow of a pace. No one seemed to be in a hiring mood this time of year. I stretched out on the floor, stared at the ceiling and thought of this.

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