Conscious Choice: About Those Hangers

December 2000

About Those Hangers

by Betsy Humphreys

I am still reeling from a one-line statistic thrown my way a month ago. The owner of a lingerie company was quizzing my tour group about our buying habits before taking us into his factory.

He had sat quietly listening to the comments:

"I can’t go more than three days without shopping. If nothing else, I’ll go to the grocery story."

"I shop to feel good."

"It’s something to do."

I knew several women in the group would have given more conservative answers, but they — and I — did not speak up. Somehow we seemed out of place in this verbal shopping spree.

The owner agreed with the views expressed, then confirmed them with his data: The average woman has a seven-year supply of clothes in the closet already. She shops for fun.

Seven years! What on earth are we doing with all these clothes?

My mind wandered back fifty years to the time my mother spoke sharp words to me, her five-year-old daughter, who had just played dress-up in Mother’s one good dress. At that age I could not understand her distress, but now I know almost nobody then had the wardrobe of today’s average woman. Often the single presentable offering in the closet was called the "B and O," that is, the Best and Only dress.

When you add in the convenience of automatic washers and dryers that can spill out clean clothes with essentially no human effort, the oddity becomes even more bizarre.

I know we are tempted daily. With full page ads in every newspaper and magazine and TV promotions for the best sales ever, we are enticed at every turn.

Ensconced in this barrage is the variety of colors, weaves, and styles to choose from.

By contrast, in the European countries I’ve visited, winter colors are plain and dark. One September afternoon I walked through Kringlan, the only mall in Iceland, located in the capital city of Reykjavik. The display windows in the clothing stores featured almost exclusively black and brown items. How many brown pant suits would an average customer be interested in buying?

In Milan, my husband and I ate dinner one night with a dozen Italian women. To a one they wore black dresses. If I lived there, how many black dresses would I be tempted to buy?

The next morning we walked to the Duomo with a British couple. I had made the ultra gauche mistake of wearing my bright red winter suit. As we approached the crowded plaza in front of the landmark church, the suit shouted, "American tourist." Our British friend compounded my embarrassment by noting that if we were separated, it would be no problem to find Betsy.

At home the red suit is a cheerful but not outlandish part of my wardrobe. Lots of other women wear red or bright green, lavender, jungle prints and plaid right through winter. Our choices are legion, and perhaps that is a large part of the overabundance problem.

I can say no to a dozen, even fifty, different dresses with no trouble. Then comes the fifty-first one, and I am a lost soul, trapped by my own weakness into buying something I don’t need and using money I could have given to someone who does need a new piece of clothing.

I have been struggling with this dilemma ever since the children, with their constant clothing needs that consumed the clothing budget, flew the family coop.

I am starting to remedy the situation. One curb I put on myself is a near-prohibition on aimless shopping. If I have to wander a mall regularly just to fill otherwise empty time, I need to plan my life better. Time is a gift to be well-spent, not dawdled away. I keep a mental list of activities I’d like to try "sometime." When I find myself drawn into shopping to fill a void, I try on a new project instead of an unneeded sweater.

A second discovery found me. As I approach age sixty, I find I am sinking into myself, so to speak. My weight stays constant, but the center of gravity has settled into my midriff. Some perfectly good clothes are now too tight. Enter the resale shop. This is a booming business, judging from the store I visit. I am only one of 1,300 on its donor list in a town of less than 20,000. Further, this shop is only a few doors from a competitor and a half-block from a third.

When another person buys my contribution, part of my original purchase price is recycled back to me. I save these "bonus dollars" into a replacement piece, sometimes from the same shop.

A third discovery I’ve made seems so obvious, and yet it came late: There will always be more sales after the one being advertised today. Naturally, the stores want to create the impression of today’s sale being the last chance on this planet to find a bargain. Puffledorf! I look that hype in the face and say, "I can wait for another day when my need and another bargain come together."

About ten years ago I discovered another curb accidentally. I had bought some new hangers with hooks that allow each hanger to dangle from the one above it so that five or six items are clustered. I put all my turtlenecks (my official winter top) on one set, all my casual shirts on another, all my good blouses on a third, and slacks on the fourth. Skirts follow the same pattern on their own multiple hangers — summer skirts on one and winter ones on another.

Now I do not buy extra clothes. I only replace clothes I can’t wear because they don’t fit or are too tired for words. The closet rule is: No hanger; no buying.

I’m not claiming a miracle cure. I still have more than I need, and I suppose clothes will always be a prime weakness with me. But the discipline of the hangers is beginning to take hold. When I slip a new item into its reserved space in the closet, I don’t feel guilty or frivolous because I know I can and will wear it.

Did I mention that in the last ten years I have never been able to find similar hangers? That helps, too.

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