Feb 18, 2016 4 min read

There’s an idea making the rounds of social media, an alternative to giving up chocolate or beer for Lent.

Called the 40-day Clear Out, the plan is to cull one piece of clothing or an accessory from your closet every day of Lent; after day 40, you donate the clothing to an agency that will make it available to people who can use the things.

Sounded good to me.

Like many of us, I have a lot of clothing that I don’t wear. There’s the dressy wardrobe from the time my life needed those things. There are working-girl clothes that I don’t really need but were too expensive to toss. There’s the shameful corner of cute things that don’t fit right any more. Looking around, I recognized I have enough clothing to accommodate 40 days of Lenten donating.

Of course, sacrificing clothing from a stash I don’t really wear would be like my giving up beer for Lent. I don’t drink beer. Better that I give up coffee, or donate my red cowboy boots. Pope Francis said it’s preferable to make your Lenten sacrifice to do or give something than to deny yourself something.

And so on Day One, I walked into the closet and had a look around. To my left was the rack of winter dressy clothing: silk blouses and heavy wool skirts and the dark purple silk velvet blazer. I’d had that thing for probably 10 years. It still fit, and it was my color. I pulled it from the hanger.

My heart beat a little faster. I stroked the smooth pink lining that let my arms slip right into it every time. It was perfectly tailored, and always managed to hide pounds and fluff. Sighing, I carried it downstairs, folded it carefully and put it in the Lenten Sacrifice hamper. Closed the lid.

Day Two, I went scrounging. There, in the middle drawer, were my jeans: dressy and distressed and a pair of something called Pajama Jeans, which seemed like a good idea when I saw the commercial late one night. The first time I put them on, my daughter told me I looked like an elderly sailor.

Into the hamper they went.

By Day Seven, the hamper was filling up, with sweatshirts and a slim black pencil skirt (that ship has sailed, sigh), and a fuzzy winter coat that took up a lot of our hall closet space.

A writer named Marie Kondo has been getting attention for her book, “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.” She takes a drastic approach to culling the herd, saying that everything we own must bring joy. If it doesn’t, get rid of it.

There are things I own that bring me joy, namely the dogs, the front porch swing, my kids’ framed self-portraits and my bike. Also, the box of Nutty Buddy cones in the freezer comes to mind.

But clothing? No. If I were to follow Marie Kondo’s directive to toss anything not joyous, I would be teaching class naked, and nobody wants to see that.

On Day Eight, I pulled a white button-down shirt from the closet and took it to the donate hamper. There in the tangled wad of clothing was a purple velvet sleeve. I grabbed it and pulled out the jacket. There was a time I was happy wearing the jacket: to work, out to dinner with friends, for a speech. Perhaps more than any garment I’ve worn, this one felt and looked right every time I put it on. Was that what’s meant by joy? And if so, should I keep it?

But what would the Pope say? I returned it to the hamper. There are 30 more days of Lent. I have time to decide.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.