Whilst beginning to sort out my life (i.e. My wardrobe) over the weekend into piles of 'take', 'leave', 'sell', and 'give to Vinnies', I started to feel that anxious feeling of "oh shit, I am actually doing this, and I have no job, and don't know very many people, and although this was a slammin' idea in theory, it is now coming into fruition, and to be honest I would just prefer to get into bed and pretend it isn't happening, and Emma what the F*(k were you thinking?!" kind of feeling, not to be too specific or anything.
Thing is, it is the unknown which is exciting, but it is also the unknown that is freaking me out.
Cleaning out my wardrobe i this instance meant being ruthless. I hate being ruthless. Especially with clothes and accessories. I am sentimental. I still own my year ten lace formal top (hideous), and joke t-shirts from my sister (have worn on occasion when incredibly intoxicated), and a pair of Missoni pants from my Dad that he gave me when I got my job (which I wore once in 2005). All these things had. to. go. And it was sad.
So I have realised that a part of my freak out has stemmed from the fact that my wardrobe has doubled as my gigantic memory box over these past years - and my first port of call for lots of laughs, a couple of fail-safe first date outfits, way too many wack-job girls night outfits, a good 'put-together' work outfit, one funeral ensemble, and lots of special birthday outfits.
Having to pull this apart, and sort my stuff into these piles is sad - but even worse is the fact that I can only take 23 kgs of this 'stuff' (because lets face it, thats what it is) with me. AND this 23kgs needs to consist of practical stuff. Ugh! I hate that word.
And the truth is, I could be back in 2 months - jobless, cashless, and without my things which I threw out pre-move. Although I could end up marrying an Italian Stallion and living the dream in Milan, or have the British Fashion Council demand that I work for them as long as I accept my 100000000 pound salary (it pays to dream, my friends).
The other thing that doesn't help me in this situation is the fact that I am a gigantic drama queen. My friends can vouch for this. I can turn a stubbed toe into a life-threatening disease just as Jesus turned water into wine. Not that I am directly comparing myself to Jesus, though there are some uncanny similarities.
Needless to say, this is happening, and I need to get excited. Not even excited... I need to get positive about this gigantic-ass move. Im hoping now I have 'put it out there' I can get back to positivity. Ah!
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