Alex points out. We are in my bedroom, which is an absolute mess: my oak canopy bed is unmade, the pink-and-white-striped sheets and comforter in a tangle at the foot of the mattress. The surface of my vanity holds a slew of makeup, everything from bronzer powder to multiple tubes of mascara to body glitter to what must be at least three dozen tubes of lipstick collected in a pricey designer purse that I apparently used exclusively for cosmetic storage. I don’t remember being such a slob. I’m almost embarrassed for Alex to see my room in such disarray.“But this is my stuff.” I pout. “It’s only been a few weeks. They could wait a little bit longer.”“Yeah, well, they’re your friends. I mean, you’ve gotta expect them to jump at the opportunity for free clothes. Be reasonable, Liz. To them, this is better than a clearance at JCPenney.”I wince at the suggestion. “Alex. My friends and I do not shop at JCPenney.”I feel incredibly sad looking at my old things. There is a history documented in the mess, a genuine illustration of who I was.
