It’s that time of year again and the dreaded day is not far off. Could be September 27 or September 30. Sometimes it’s October 3 or October 11. I never know what day it will actually be; I just get up one morning and I know it has arrived.
It’s the day I take my summer clothes down to the basement and bring my winter clothes up to my bedroom. This might be a good time to breeze through your paper and see if there is a more worthwhile article to read. On the other hand, you might be one of many who are saying, “Gee, I guess I’m not the only one who does this. I better stick this column on my fridge.”
The first big issue is how to time this annual event. I usually wait until October, but last year I had some free time in September so I tried to sneak it in and get it over with. I was pretty proud of myself until we had a hot spell, then I felt pretty stupid at the neighborhood barbecue party in black corduroys and a black turtleneck on an 85-degree day.
Every fall I also promise myself that I will wash or dry-clean all my spring and summer wardrobe so that when April 12 rolls around (or March 7 or March 17, or April 23), I can just go down to the basement and take everything fresh off the rack. This is an odd plan, since I don’t have any racks in the basement. My golf shirts are hanging on the hot water pipes; my pants are in an old bureau drawer that has no handles and my short-sleeve shirts have been deposited in a black plastic garbage bag in the crawl space. I would donate some of the outdated clothes to a charity, but they’re pretty musty, and I don’t want to create any ill-will at Goodwill.