Seven Shirts? Seriously?

Seven Shirts? Seriously?

Seven Shirts and Other Unrealistic Life Concepts

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The Seven-Shirt Theory

Sometimes an ordinary day begins with a realization that briefly makes you question your own sanity.

In my case, it started with a phone call from Inge.

We were chatting about this and that when she suddenly said she had read that a woman only needs seven shirts in her closet.

Seven.

Not seventeen.

Not twenty-seven.

Seven.

I was speechless.

“Can you manage with that?” I asked.

“Me?” said Inge. “What does that have to do with me?”

Exactly.

Now, I live in northern Germany. Here, we don’t simply have summer and winter. We have every imaginable weather condition in between – sometimes all on the very same day.

How is anyone supposed to get by with seven shirts?

And besides:

What exactly counts as a shirt?

Do blouses count?

Sweaters?

Sweatshirts?

Tops?

Long-sleeved shirts?

After a moment’s thought, I decided to be generous and classify everything as upper-body clothing.

Inge, who introduced me to the seven-shirt theory. The fact that she spent many years presenting fashion may explain why both of us approach this idea with a healthy dose of skepticism.

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The Inventory

Curious now, I stood in front of my closet after the phone call and started counting.

The result was…

well…

68.

Sixty-eight tops.

I used to think that getting older would automatically make you more sensible.

Today I know better.

You get older.

Becoming sensible is an entirely different matter.

And then there is Mike.

Mike works at our favorite boutique in Berlin and truly knows his craft.

If we don’t manage to visit at the beginning of a new season, he puts together a carefully selected collection and sends it to my home.

So far, there has always been something I liked.

Which, of course, may explain why the number 68 isn’t getting any smaller.

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The Cashmere Problem

Now, one could argue that 68 tops are an exceptional case.

A statistical anomaly.

An unfortunate one-time occurrence.

Unfortunately, there is evidence to the contrary.

Take the cashmere shop in Timmendorfer Strand, for example.

On our convertible drives, we regularly pass by, which is about as helpful for my attempts at minimalism as a pastry shop is for a diet.

The other day, three cashmere tops were displayed in the shop window.

One in raspberry red.

One in light blue.

One in cream.

Soft.

Elegant.

Perfect.

I looked at the tops.

And realized there was absolutely no way I could choose just one.

So I looked at Reinhold instead.

Hoping for reason.

For restraint.

For someone who would say:

“One is enough.”

Instead, without batting an eyelid, he said:

“Take all three.”

All three.

I mean, how is anyone ever supposed to end up with seven shirts under those circumstances?

Some people help you resist temptation.

Reinhold parks right in front of it.

I’m beginning to think the minimalists forgot to include the Reinhold variable in their calculations.

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The Reversible Jacket Story

And as if all that weren’t enough, there is also the story of the reversible jacket.

Last winter, we were standing in 104°F (40°C) heat in La Quinta, California, in a boutique called Le Chateau, looking at a windproof and waterproof reversible jacket.

I liked it immediately.

Reinhold asked the question that probably crosses everyone’s mind when they’re strolling through La Quinta’s shimmering old town wearing shorts and flip-flops:

“Who buys weather jackets in the desert?”

The saleswoman laughed.

“Not the locals,” she said. “Whenever it rains here, we go outside and dance in the rain.”

That seemed perfectly plausible to us.

I still liked the jacket.

And Reinhold was already thinking ahead.

More specifically, all the way to Schleswig-Holstein.

Of course, the jacket came home to Germany with us.

Today, it’s one of my favorite pieces.

Whenever wind, rain, or northern German weather moods appear, I briefly think of that saleswoman in California.

And of the fact that Reinhold was right once again.

Which, unfortunately, is just as unhelpful for my wardrobe as it is for my attempts to get down to seven shirts.

La Quinta, California. 104°F. The saleswoman was right about the rain. Reinhold was right about the jacket.

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Trying to Be Sensible

The whole seven-shirt idea wouldn’t leave me alone.

So I looked up the source Inge had been referring to.

And indeed, seven was the magic number.

At least according to certain minimalist concepts.

The idea is simple: fewer decisions, less clutter, more clarity.

It sounds sensible.

Almost suspiciously sensible.

With the advice of the minimalists in mind, I began to look at my closet with a critical eye.

Anything you haven’t worn in a long time?

Get rid of it.

Anything that no longer brings you joy?

Out it goes.

I pushed hangers from left to right and back again.

Opened drawers.

Sorted shelves.

Thought about it.

Put things back.

Thought about it some more.

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The Result

In the end, I parted with two tops.

Two.

Sixty-eight became sixty-six.

The minimalists would probably shake their heads.

Reinhold thought the outcome was perfectly reasonable.

And me?

I’ve decided not to pursue this seven-shirt idea any further for now.

After all, one should have realistic goals.

Maybe I’ll make it to sixty-five one day.

But seven?

Not even if the cashmere shop closes.

The good news: I did the inventory. The bad news: I did the inventory. And no, the holey sweaters are not up for discussion.

 

More reflections from the series can be found here:
Life in between

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