Shoes and boxes were scattered haphazardly, spilling out of the closet, across the invisible boundary usually guarded by closed doors and into my friend’s bedroom. Were I in the home of nearly everyone else that I know, myself included, this would not have been an unusual sight. But this was different. These were shoes that when not found on the feet of their owner, spent leisure time with soul mates spooning in original boxes stacked with precision and care. One look at the closet and the trail of contents and I knew there was more to the story than my dear friend had chosen to share. Despite her attempts at convincing me and the rest of her world that she was both “fine” and “okay,” her closet revealed that she was neither.
Perpetually neat, this was a closet that represented a woman in control. It was only natural to assume that this control extended itself to the outside world. But the closet’s current state of disarray communicated volumes, filling in gaps in the storyline that I hadn’t even known existed. Her closet could not hide the truth. Furthermore, it was unapologetic and blatantly honest, failing to confirm her story and wasting no time in betraying her.
Her shoes, once considered monogamous, were now separating themselves from the partners they had sworn to share their lives with. They were behaving with reckless abandon. This was an orgy: shoes participating in the most sinful of practices with the wives and husbands of neighbors and friends right there on the floor.
Articles of clothing also indulged themselves in loose behavior. Tops, skirts, and pants once arranged according to color and style were not in their customary places. Pastels mixed with primaries and cottons mingled with polyester blends. Lacking the skill or desire to discipline themselves, the satins and velvets sashayed along, enjoying the swishing sounds made by their movements. They were on a mission, yearning to be touched and no longer willing to wait for a special occasion.
The closet had turned into Sodom and Gomorrah. This looked like my closet, not hers. She was more of a Bethlehem-closet type: fit for a king and clean enough to deliver babies in, should the need arise.
Perhaps the events occurring in and around the closet were a poor attempt to act on the words and advice of George Bernard Shaw: “If you can’t get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you’d best teach it to dance.” Maybe the skeletons had gotten restless and in their restlessness had not bothered to determine the sometimes blurred distinctions between dancing and sex.
I pried apart the mess that had enjoyed itself a little too much. The last formerly monogamous shoe was finally reunited with its other half and the pair placed in the remaining empty box. My poor reconstruction of Closet Bethlehem was complete.
Letting the skeletons out for some fresh air and a night on the town once in awhile didn’t seem like a bad idea. It seemed almost preventative. But then again, it is often easier to remove items from closets than it is to put them back as though nothing had ever happened.
