So feeble
I can’t do it.
This is how it goes: I take a deep breath before I approach It. Then I look at It, and my resolve just melts.
Every time, I know it’ll be hard; and I know that every time will end up just like the time before, and the time before that one. I can’t seem to put an end to It. I just can’t.

It’s been five years, people of blogland, which means that I’ve been trying for five years, each passing year I’ve tried a little bit harder.
But It won’t let me. Every year I fail, miserably.
So now It’s smug, because It knows. It knows that I can’t just pick it up and dismiss it. It’s so smug It thinks It’s above me and my feeble resolutions.
It started innocently enough; a chance encounter in February 1999 in Lyon. I saw no malice in It. I didn’t know what was coming. Yet. It came back to London with me, and It’s been plaguing me ever since.
I only ever wore It twice!
Both times, people didn’t say anything, but merely averted their gaze. Tactfully. Mercifully. Then it went back into the closet, a defiant patch of swirly purple adrift in a sea of black.
I don’t understand the hold It seems to have on me.
It can’t be a sentimental attachment. No memorable event ever took place while I was wearing It. No button was ripped off It in the throes of a passionate, carnal encounter.
It can’t be a sensual attachment, either. Its label divulges ‘100% polyester’, and that, my friends, isn’t sensual. It’s not even nice.
It can’t be an aesthetic bond, either. Cheap material, mediocre cut. A part of me wants to believe that it’s so dowdy and tacky it’s cool. Most of me knows it’s just fugly. I know I’ll never wear It again. Yet I can’t give it away.

I just don’t understand.
What to do?
Hire a hit man? An Oxfam hit man?