4 hours later and 80kg less - I realize I wish I would be a man

80 kg of stuff. It’s me twice. OK, a little less, but my body without my head twice. 80kg.

Four hours.
And by the end, I was rather headless.

But it is not only me; D. was also heavily involved here. As life is taking yet another curve (that we hope to straighten with time), we agreed to make the flat ready to leave in seconds if needed. Not that we would count on a fire escape any soon, but, you know, life happens.

The deal was to throw out everything we haven't worn for a year and not intending to wear in the foreseeable future. In the first 5 minutes I threw out three T-shirts, and I was thrilled. I firmly believed that this is the sign of being grown-up; that finally, I got what it takes to be an adult – and a mature one for that matter.

But in the next 10 minutes, I started to find ‘things,' and my self-esteem of the mature adult started to fade.

The first thing I found was that suit that I wore to the premier when the Béjart Ballet came to Budapest. I was 15. I tried it on. A little more pressure on my stomach than I remembered, but the length was perfect. (Really? I did not grow since I was 15? Damn. I would just need that 2 cm more.)
I saw myself entering the theater knowing I would meet Béjart. I walk towards the mirror when D. says:

‘No, this must go, this is from 1930.’

‘C’mon, you know how stylish I was?’

‘Emphasize is on was.’

I tell him he just ruined my moment. He just smiles.

I kept the trouser; I let the jacket go. (It did look 1930’s)

Then I found that over-washed gray shirt that guy brought me from Istanbul. The guy who asked me out before D. but I told him I was not ready for him. And while I truly believed I was gentle with him, but the next day, he called me 'bitch' - a clear sign that I sure wasn't that gentle. That, of course, hurt me, but I kept the T-shirt.

Until yesterday.

Then I found that warm jumper my grandmother knit for me years ago. I’ve never even worn it. Since then we don’t talk. I tried it on.

‘I’ve not worn it once. But it is not bad, is it?’

‘No, it is not.’

‘I can’t let it go - she must have worked hours on it.’

This is how the jumper became an exception. I folded it nicely, and I started to feel how much I still need to mature. I just can’t let go of things.

‘How come you just throw things out so easily?’

‘They are just clothes!’

‘Yeah but you have no attachment to the memories or moments?’

‘Not really.’

I just rolled my eyes.

The next thing I found was a pink tank top I got from my ex, years ago.

‘What do you think?’

‘I like it.’

‘It’s from my ex.’

‘OK, so it is time to let it go.’

‘My ex or my top?’ – I asked.

He frowned. The top went.

Then I found that gray, striped skirt I was wearing for all my job interviews. Really. For all. It was my Kabbalah. I tried it on, walked to the mirror and realized I am in better shapes than when I was a diplomat to the EU.

The skirt went.

Four hours passed and half way in I poured some wine for myself.

‘I just can’t do this’- I told D, who was mechanically throwing out things from his side of the wardrobe.

‘Hey, that yellow shirt... I loved it on you in New York. And that blue, you remember? The first time you took me to Tel Aviv…and c’mon that short, it fits you so well…’

He looked at me and gently directed me back towards my end of the room.

So I slogged myself back to my section and tried on fifty other things I wanted to see just one more time on myself. And each time I looked into the mirror, I traveled back in time a little.

The furthest I could go back was age 14. That long red dress I wore on that summer night after a performance at the Opera house. The dress still fit on me, but it stood differently. It wasn’t sitting on that 14-year-old tiny ballerina body anymore. The only indication of my adulthood, however, was my body. I looked at myself for minutes, and I felt everything that that 14-year-old felt back then.

I took off the dress.
I let it go.

And just before I could collapse under the waves of emotions, D. said:

‘Look, this is from the army.’

‘Wow. How cool! So do you have at least any emotion towards those boots?’

‘No.’ – he said as he threw them into the white bag.

‘Seriously? Like nothing…?’

Silence. And I could see that almost invisible change on his face.

‘OK, now I have a little.’

‘God, finally! I thought I would die alone here with all my emotions.’

This is how we piled up 80 kg of stuff. Stuff that once made us look elegant, made us feel the ‘cool kid,' covered our feet as we marched in the army (D. of course); stuff that once made us happy.

I don’t know if maturing in this regard is ever possible, but I am ready. I feel lighter. And I am ready to start collecting again, hoping that what I buy today will also fit in 15 years again and I will look into the mirror knowing how far I have come and that the curve that we see today turned into a straight line...

But my main conclusion was really this: sometimes I wish I would be a man. It seems that at least throwing out things would come easier…and that is already something.