The Sexy Wardrobe Staple from My Youth I Can’t Bring Myself to Toss

On the cusp of turning 50, our writer realizes she’s not ready to let go of that side of herself.

I’m embarking on a project I’m calling My Year of Decluttering, where I’m getting rid of one thing a day for a year, and documenting each item and its trajectory into and out of my life on Threads and in my newsletter. I turn 50 in November, and I didn’t want to enter a new decade owning so much stuff I’m not using. So far, less than two weeks into my venture, giving things up has been relatively easy. I’ve parted with clothes that no longer fit, a lipstick that’s long since gone chalky, an overnight bag that’s traveled around the world with me but that I no longer use.

I chose this route, rather than decluttering en masse, because I know from past experience that whenever I do a big purge, I almost always fill my space back up, either with newly acquired items, or by taking things out from closets or drawers and displaying them so that my room looks just as cluttered as it did before.

I wanted a project I could stick with, that would make me truly pause and think about each item as it left my home, which in turn I hope will make me think about the objects that enter my home as well. It’s hard to embark on a retail therapy shopping spree when I picture myself five years from now donating whatever it was I thought I “must” have.

That being said, when I told my boyfriend about a particularly glamorous dress I’m coveting (and no, it’s not only because it’s from a collab with the stunning Christina Hendricks), he said he’d get it for me… if I got rid of 20 dresses. I can afford to buy it myself, especially if I wait for a sale, but I knew he was right that I surely had at least 20 dresses I wasn’t wearing.

I plowed through my closet that same night, picking up dresses that I’ve stopped wearing for various reasons and don’t see myself ever returning to. There are a few I’m going to ask a seamstress friend to take in, and the others I’m happy to donate so that when I look in my closet, I don’t have to wade past dresses that either frustrate me by no longer fitting or annoy me because I no longer have any idea what I once saw in them.

I was surprised to find that in under an hour, I’d more than met his requirement—and not just because I can see myself wearing the water lily dress. There were surprises in store as I waded into the deepest reaches of my closets: In addition to the dresses I’m giving away, I found some that I’d forgotten I owned, like a form-fitting tan dress I have no use for in my everyday life of taking my daughter to music class and library story time, but would work well for a night out.

Over the course of my decluttering, I’ve not only ditched those 20 dresses, I’ve said good riddance to everything from a book stamp to a candlestick to sneakers I only wore a handful of times. But where I’m still struggling is with my collection of dozens of fishnet stockings. In my 20s and 30s, I exclusively wore dresses and skirts, often in bold floral prints or colorful or interesting patterns, and since I hate bare legs, I opted for fishnets. I’ve gone through various phases of liking or not liking my body, but any time I’ve worn fishnets, I’ve admired the way my legs look in them. Putting them on made me feel instantly sexy and also powerful, like I could take on the world.

Ever since I discovered the Greenwich Village store Gigi*K many years ago, I’d been almost exclusively wearing their gorgeous and sturdy fishnets and other hosiery. The owner was always wonderful to me, greeting me with a friendly smile and showing me which stockings had come in recently. Even after I moved out of New York in 2013 to the suburbs of southern New Jersey, I still visited her store almost every time I returned (sadly, they’re now closed), intent on making sure I always had high-quality tights available.

However, over the last five years, I’ve transitioned my wardrobe from dresses and skirts to t-shirts with yoga pants or shorts, except on rare occasions. The yoga pants allow me to keep my phone in my pocket and are a better fit for my current lifestyle as a suburban mom. I estimate I go out and dress up maybe 10 times a year, and that’s being generous, which is plenty for me as a late-in-life introvert. I would much rather order in takeout with my boyfriend than hire a babysitter and go out, especially when we’re at home (vacations are another story).

Yet the idea of permanently saying goodbye to the dozens of pairs of fishnets in different colors and styles, from glitter to hot pink to floral patterned, currently jumbled in a box, feels like saying I’ll never dress in a sexy way again. The fishnets represent a huge part of my life and my youth; they were a staple of my wardrobe, a way I stood out and made myself feel hot no matter what else I was wearing.

Keeping them feels like I’m leaving the door open to someday once again being the kind of woman who wears four-inch heels and stays out past midnight, going to a concert or an impromptu party or just seeing where the night takes me. That’s not even something I dream about doing, but I hate the idea that if the opportunity arises, I won’t have the right legwear.

In the past month, as I’ve been sorting through my fishnets, throwing out the ones with irreparable holes, I’ve also been putting them on just to hang out around the house. They feel familiar, like catching up with an old friend. My one-year-old daughter has been fascinated by the change, running her little fingers along the designs while I explain to her what they are. Wearing them for no reason other than the joy of it has made even boring days more fun.

On a purely rational level, I should pare my fishnets down to only a handful in a variety of colors, but that would assume that decluttering is purely about rationality. I firmly believe that our belongings, especially our clothing, represent far more than the face value of any given item. When we wear clothes, we imbue them with memories of both what we did in them and how we felt.

I don’t remember my exact outfit from January 4, 2012, when I went on my first “date” with my boyfriend (we both thought we were just casual acquaintances meeting up to talk business, only having an inkling it was a date after we’d talked for over two hours) but I’d bet money I was wearing fishnets.

My fishnets are a part of both my fashion history, and my evolution as a person.

Sorting through my remaining fishnets has meant dealing with much bigger questions than whether I’ll wear any particular pair again. They’ve made me ask which version of myself is the “real” me—the mom at Montessori class in a t-shirt with a funny saying on it, or the woman in a low-cut dress, fishnets, and heels, ready for adventure? Can I be both no matter what I’m doing in a given moment?

I can’t purge all my stockings just yet because I’m still grappling with who I am and how I want to present myself, both in front of the mirror and to the world. Maybe I need to make wearing my fishnets a more regular part of my life, and prioritize date nights where we go out, even if it’s just to the movies, despite the fact that I’m mostly a homebody who’s content in her cozy cocoon.

I don’t want to keep the fishnets just to stare at them wistfully, tracing my fingers along their netting and remembering who I used to be. I want to keep them because I want dressing in my 50s to feel exciting, a celebration rather than a chore. I don’t want to cast off my wilder side just because I’m settled down now in multiple senses of the phrase.

I don’t know how often I’ll wear my fishnets, but I know they represent a part of me I’m not willing to give up.

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