Too Much Of

 No one can have too much of. Everyone is a collector whether they think it or not. One of my grandaughters collected tiny stuffed animals. They  filled her bed but she knew each one and spoke to them and loved them. I often wonder, now that she is grown, what happened to all of her little pets. She has living ones today. Another person I know, collected tiny jugs. One of her walls was lined with them. She could name all the countries in which she and her husband bought them. Another friend had 100 shoe boxes with photos of what was inside. Many men collect tools or cars or ball caps or when boys, military toys. Barbie made collections fun for some children. I am a collector, too. I have all the English royalty mugs from Victoria  to  Charles III and tiny spoons of world travels, but most of all, I love clothing. I have been called a "clothes horse". My fifty cashmere sweaters of all colours, are babied like Midas's gold. Clothes Horses are looked down upon by collectors, and yet there are few women I have ever heard of, who don't hog closet space with their  garment fetishes. Why? Okay, I give mine away bit by bit with the rule of "if you add one, you must subtract one". Someone called me a "fashionista" which was entirely incorrect. Those persons who come in every gender, are special folk who care about labels. I don't. I like fit, especially quality of fabric and make. That's my rule. I'm not interested in impressing anyone and I seldom go out.  I dress by mood. I  go to my tiny dressing room with the bench and the full length mirror, and look  at rows to decide what fits the day. It's fun and a bit of a hobby. I also collect recipes. I can read recipe books that are now passe, with the same reader delight as with my fave writer Sue Grafton. I can almost taste what I read that goes into baking, cooking, frying and barbecuing. Now, I am hungry. Off, in my off-white cashmere, to the kitchen.