Hat Tip

It might have been Tolstoy, or perhaps P.G. Wodehouse's brainy Jeeves, who remarked to the effect that possessions are oppressive. I've lately had a moment to contemplate that concept as I look to clear out more than three decades' worth of possessions.

Most young ladies shed their prom gowns moments after the big party. Sometimes during. Mine has moved around in multiple closets up to the present and has resided with me in this apartment multiple dress sizes and fashion trends ago. A decade younger than the prom gown was a black strapless formal, worn once (or perhaps twice; it might have been taken out for a New Year's Eve waltz at the Kennedy Center).

And then there are the hats. The velvet Renaissance Faire cap my brother wore when he was a "Rennie." A British driving cap I bought on my very first trip to London. A black and white striped Chicago gangster-style fedora. And a red beret, that infamous "French hat" that made my niece's kindergarten classmates all laugh.

Other than a brief fling at the office Halloween costume party (I went as "employee who wears many hats") they never saw any action outside the mirror in my closet.

Oh, and a pair of jazz-style tap shoes, last worn at my notorious "feets of fury" recital, as one approaching-middle-age woman with a group of middle-school classmates. (I can still do a time step and shuffle off to Buffalo, but not in an apartment with hardwood floors.)

What to do, what to do. These are not things one donates to Salvation Army. Nor does one donate them to landfills, which are not exactly needy. I thought of local theaters, but they do not, as a rule, warehouse items, even of arguably theatrical value as vintage pieces.

At some point, this analytical creature needed to stop analyzing and act. I Googled and found this wonderful nonprofit, TDF Costume Collection, packed up my duds, and off they went. I hope they find the creative futures I could not.

A tip of the hats to you all.

Love, hosaa
checked hats and all