GO AWAY, GIVE ME A CHANCE TO MISS YOU

“Go away, give me a chance to miss you. Say goodbye, it will make me want to kiss you…”

A Pink fan and an ardent DVD ‘Live’ procurer I have enjoyed countless hours of her music. A slightly hoarse throat and ringing ears are usually the only side affects of a night spent lip-sinking her lyrics.

However, while singing passionately to Leave Me Alone (I’m Lonely) one evening it suddenly occurred to me that I am totally this individual (and not in a way like every woman actually believes they are Carrie from Sex in The City). I honestly am this person. I adore sharing my time with those I love, but geez I love it when they’re not there.

I need my space, that’s just who I am.

It was in the midst of this epiphany a sick feeling rose from the lowest point of my stomach and exploded out of my forehead giving me an instant headache. You know that feeling. When a new level of consciousness smacks you right between the eyes and you can’t believe it’s taken you so long to get it.

HANG ON.

Does that mean that distance is all that’s required to renew my feelings of passion? OMG! How am I only seeing this now, what’s wrong with me? I consider myself particularly introspective so this abrupt revelation comes as somewhat of a shock.

I loved them. I loved them dearly but I got bored so I happily set them free. Yes, I should have realized when I saw them with someone else and felt a slight pang of resentment but I shrugged it off as boredom with what I have now. The new version just doesn’t seem to be cutting it anymore. It never occurred to me that I actually missed them.

The good times we had together. They were so versatile, so happy to go with the flow.

Metallic heels are like that though. They go with everything, which is why I think I got bored with them in the first place, but on the gorgeous friend I gave them to they look sooooo good. What was I thinking? Maybe these were the ones?

You know, the classics you wear, look after and nurture then pop back in the box for twelve months and pull out again when you’re feeling nostalgic. The ones you earmark for your first born daughter because they’re utterly destined to become vintage must-haves.

What if I’ve let ‘the ones’ get away? Oh, Manolo, can you ever forgive me?

This exposé of my emotional behaviour has made me realize that we women are a little like 7 year olds. My mother keeps telling me to rotate my child’s toys by packing up one third of them and hiding them away, only to return them to her six months later and see her embrace them with renewed vigor.

I survey my over-the-top purpose built shoe storage and cast aside my favourites, for now. Digging deep in each rung, I reach into the melancholy depths and haul out a selection of dust covered shoe bags. Oh, the exhilaration of it all. Trips to Italy, shopping sprees in Melbourne, cheeky strappy sandals in sensible beige – Ah, the memories…

Flinging off the Chloe ballerinas that are my current wardrobe staple, I slide on the 9cm heeled beige strappy sandals. I feel a smile creep across my face as I recall wearing them some years ago and a good male friend telling me that only I could find sexy strappy sandals in sensible beige.

Black 2004 Gucci runway platforms peek out from beneath black and silver dust covers. With 87 people on the waiting list for these shoes in Sydney I walked straight up to the Gucci Boutique in Waikiki and walked out with them on my feet. A little overdressed but exhilarated.

Memories good and bad come with these unintentionally archived objects. I find myself completely in love for a second time.

Some of my current favourites are rotated to the back and the old / new ones given pride of place once again. Stimulating ideas for wardrobe choice over the next week the old guard has rehabilitated many other discharged wardrobe items. I feel good. Fresh. Revitalized. Externally Spring cleaned almost.

So. I presume with that theory well and truly proven, there is one last thing for me to do.

I should probably duck off and attempt to rotate my daughter’s toys.

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