When I’m anxious I hoard clothes

Let’s call it shelf-help

We are living in uncertain times. Politically, economically, socially, things aren’t as sure a bet as they used to be.

But with uncertainty comes anxiety. With anxiety comes the need to quell it.

My seven-month-old niece, Leila, only falls securely asleep beside her teddy companions. They are blue, purple, pink. Some fluffy, others velvet-smooth. Collectively, they are her security blanket, reassuring her she’s not alone in her cot, or the world.

Survivalists in Silicon Valley stockpile food, munitions, and whole underground apartment complexes to ensure that they’ll survive a nuclear holocaust. Some believe this is imminent.

Me? I gather clothes. Reams of rainbow-hued dresses, piles of knitted sweaters. Draws stuffed with socks, snug in their neat, paired parcels. Items returned to their exact spot on the rack. The multitude and the predictability is satisfying, comforting. Not unlike Leila, I draw comfort in being bordered by ‘things’.

The certainty of a purchase is in itself soothing. It involves an easy, reliable process: select, add to cart, check out. I want a pair of white shorts, I get them. There are no permutations. Bureaucracy or personal whims can’t stop me.

My job, on the other hand. My country’s politics and laws. People in my orbit. They are seemingly undivinable.

I recently ordered a dress and skirt. They didn’t arrive. Fuck me.