I raised my daughters in fixer upper conditions. They had school clothes, play clothes, ‘Sunday-Go-To-Meeting’ clothes, and ‘Paint Clothes’. Paint clothes were old, ragged or stained clothing in which we could garden, woodwork or paint pictures or houses without a care we might ruin them.

I nearly live in paint clothes now. I still get moderately gussied up for gatherings and doctor appointments, but mostly I’m in an old paint-splotched T-shirt and holey pants. I drop the pants before getting into bed, but depending on that day’s soiling, often sleep in the T-shirt.

Cuts down on laundry. Who’s gonna see or smell me? It’s not like the day’s dried dirt flakes off onto pristine sheets…usually. The sheets just aren’t that clean either. It occurs to me a problem of hygiene is developing. Close on the heels of that thought, I realize most of my time is spent still fixing things up.

I garden: digging, weeding, pruning, rearranging all that grows in my back and front yards. I sand: chairs, doorjambs, handrails. I paint: sample colors for new house, the sanded doorjambs and handrails. I scrub: floors, the shower, sinks and windows.

My days are dirty or at the very least, messy. I needn’t disturb the lovely wardrobe resting unmolested in my closet. And all those cute shoes.

Because of the upcoming move, I’m paring down my ‘belongings’. The beauty of my wearing Paint Clothes most days is that, ultimately, instead of laundering them at the end of the day, I can through them out. I still have plenty