Taking the scary, necessary step of purging that part of your closet.

You know the one I’m talking about. The part of your closet that houses the Big. Not to be outdone by the Roomy (umpteen years old Liz Lange yoga pants anyone?) or the Just In Case.

The maybe I’ll want them come Thanksgiving dinner. Or the because I’m a girl and be it salt or stress or the way the wind blows, our bodies can act weird and I need my deceptively chic looking britches, y’all.

It’s the what if I put on weight insurance policy section that lurks in every woman’s closet.

I should know. For all the closet rearranging and chest of drawers cleaning I’ve done, there is nothing but a tidy little donation pile of good intention to show for it.

This growing number of sweaters, dresses, vests, shorts…heck, pretty much everything I’d bought for myself since the “baby” started kindergarten and that old yarn about leftover baby weight wasn’t fooling anyone. I can’t bring myself to part with it.

My gateway drug back to chocolate buttercream and portions a plenty.

But you know what? Thanks to a recent lifestyle changed for good, most of those clothes now look like crap on me.

Maybe once I really loved wearing this dress, the particular cut and drape of that blouse, or the way these navy blue dress shorts literally went with everything. Maybe I even cringed at the thought of how much wear is left in these clothes, remembering what I paid for them and making my wallet hurt a little.

But in every sense of the word, I don’t have room for them anymore.

Homemade macaroni and cheese.

My grandmother’s perogies.

Most every dessert on the planet.

Not that they are off limits forever. For now, I’m still finding my own fitness ideal. There’s little room for indulgence until I reach that point.

But it feels too good to be this far along to eat my way mindlessly back into clothing sizes I never thought I’d wear. Ever.

As long as I can control how I move and what I consume, I don’t need that sneaky pile of future temptation sitting right there on my closet floor.

Goodbye, dear textiles. Thanks for the memories.