Do you ever walk into the following places with a sense of dread, overwhelm, and/or anxiety: H&M, TJ Maxx/Ross, Old Navy, Forever 21...your closet?

 I used to when mine was crammed with all the “treasures” I accumulated over the years. I have been blessed with a career that provided stability and financial independence to be reasonable—and sometimes unreasonable—when clothes shopping. I treated myself, often when on vacation. When I’m on vacation, my guard is down. I want something special to keep the memory of traveling to special locations moving with me, not just sitting on a shelf collecting dust. But I also used shopping as a cure for boredom or simply as a fun thing to do. I got excited over shiny objects. Who doesn’t?

I had colleagues mention, in a good way, that they never saw me in the same outfit. I was channeling my inner Carrie Bradshaw.

Slowly, nearly every time I walked into my closet—technically a walk-in, but narrow and shared with my husband—I felt differently about what was in there. Some garments started falling apart, losing shape or looking dated. I was quickly losing desire for a lot of them. It was overstuffed and I couldn't see anything and was constantly digging through baskets, drawers and racks. 

I started sewing decades ago. I could probably fill a closet with clothes that reminded me of that Cosby Show episode where Denise made Theo that hideous shirt, or Project Runway (when it was good) when a judge—Michael Kors, I think—coined the term “Becky Home-ecky.” Nailed it.

It wasn’t until about a year and a half, maybe two years, after I started pattern drafting and coming up with garments that actually fit and were unique (not too unique!) that I really started paying attention to what I was no longer wearing 

Welcome, closet anxiety. 

I didn’t realize it, but I was a fast-fashion war casualty.

Then I read Elizabeth L. Cline’s Overdressed: The Shockingly High Cost of Cheap Fashion. 

I felt a bit smacked around, to be honest. I’m typically more of an optimist and don’t like to dwell on the negative aspects of life. I’m aware, don’t get me wrong, and I care. But damn, I was kind of feeling hopeless.

At the same time, I was appreciative of the research Cline did and how she explored nearly every nook and cranny of the fast-fashion issue.

I started comparing it to a physical journey I had gone through years ago. It began with reading one book, The South Beach Diet. My husband and I took some of the advice, learned patterns from the recipes and started paying attention to the food we were buying and ordering when eating out. Not many years later, I ended up competing on the bodybuilding stage in the Figure class. 

While I’m not in stage shape anymore, thank you, menopause—I do feel like that journey set me up for a generally healthy lifestyle when it comes to diet and exercise choices. 

My closet had reached its own version of needing a lifestyle change.

The volume of clothes, too many choices and having to spend time trying clothes on to make sure they still fit and would coordinate was overwhelming. I loved playing dress-up as a kid. At some point, I no longer enjoyed it.

I also thought I was a conscious shopper. I looked for well-made clothes. I bought well-established brands. But I couldn’t help noticing that my go-to brands weren’t providing the quality I once relied on.

What was happening?

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was feeling more and more disappointment in retail spaces, both online and brick-and-mortar.

If I were to buy a T-shirt today, I would consider spending $40–$60 on one made in the USA from USA-sourced fabric and fiber. I truly believe we need to support our domestic farmers and rebuild manufacturing that provides jobs—livelihoods! — and gives our economy a tangible backbone. 

But at $40–$60, I also expect quality: cotton that isn’t nearly see-through, strong seams and a shirt that lasts at LEAST five years. Preferably longer, considering that’s what I’m making some of my cheaper T-shirts do now.

The concert T-shirt is different. There, I’m paying partly for the experience and the memory, which I value. And I wear them often. I love dressing them up with a skirt or jacket. 

I wouldn’t even rule out Target or Old Navy for an everyday T-shirt. I’d just buy one, maybe two, instead of treating a low price as permission to buy more.

Shocker, I’d save money!

Of course, we can probably walk into Gap or Banana Republic these days and see a T-shirt for $40–$60. 

But are we buying the name, assuming the brand equals value?

I’m not so sure anymore.

And that presents another problem. Spending more doesn't automatically mean I'm buying something better. If I'm going to spend more because I expect better quality, I need to understand what I'm looking at—not just what it costs or what name is sewn into the label.

Have I replaced my Target, Old Navy and Banana Republic T-shirts with this more expensive, make-me-feel-better-about-buying-it T-shirt? No.

I’m still getting what I can out of what is already in my closet, leftover from a big clean out, giving away or donating what I clearly was not wearing or enjoying anymore. Even though some of the remaining shirts are on the brink, they’re not dead yet. Plus, because of the wear, I can’t bring myself to consciously donate them. That leaves me with the conundrum of eventually throwing them out as the last option. Ugh.

Overdressed didn’t teach me how to recognize quality. Sewing had already started doing that. What Cline gave me was vocabulary for what I was seeing in garments and a much clearer understanding of the system behind them. 

I’m not replacing my closet overnight. I’m wearing what I have, paying more attention to what I add, and slowly building a closet of clothes I really want to keep.

Maybe “Overdressed” will turn out to be for my closet what “The South Beach Diet” was for my kitchen—not a set of rules to follow forever, but the thing that taught me to start paying attention.