“Where are you taking those good black jeans,” asked my husband as he checked out the pile of clothes at the front door. They’re too short in the waist and too belled in the bottom, I explained. And these hiking boots kill my feet. And the mango colored shirt? Well, we agree that was a regrettable purchase.

The occasion was a clothes swap at a friend’s backyard in Forestville. The basics of the swap are pretty simple. All the guests bring items from their own closets that they’re ready to give up. The clothes are not tattered or hopelessly outdated. You might admire them on a friend, just not on yourself anymore. If ever.

I don’t know the origin of the clothes swap but it may have started in the pioneer days when women had to make do with one dress all the way from New Jersey to California and somewhere in western Kansas one yelled out “I’m so sick of this rag,” prompting the woman in the next wagon to yell out, “I’ll take it” and with that, one ripped off her gray muslin and the other her yellow calico and they swapped.

By the time everyone got to Sacramento the word had spread and someone had a party in her backyard and all the women got silly and tried on each other’s clothes and had something to drink and came home with a brand new look. When their husbands inquired, “Where did you get that?” they could say, “This old thing?”

It’s the best kind of shopping. You are surrounded by personal advisors who won’t hesitate to urge you to “take it, you can wear it with jeans.” Or to frown and say, “leave it.” It costs nothing. You’re recycling. And you might make a score. Like I did with my new pencil skirt that can go with sandals or boots and according to observers makes me look tall. And which my friend Maureen is ever so grateful to never wear again.

What’s left at the end of the day gets taken to the local hospice thrift store, so even though you haven’t spent any money you do end up stimulating the economy.

It’s the best kind of shopping.

You would not mistake this scene for a garden party in spite of the Jamaican music, wine and food and women spilling out of their underwires. On the clothesline by the garage were coats, pantsuits and near-formal dresses suitable for fund-raisers. Along the deck was a lineup of shoes - mother-of-the-bride wedding sandals, running shoes bought online but never worn and a dreamy pair of cowboy boots that no amount of straining and pushing were going to fit a size 9.

On the blanket next to the vegetable garden was a pile of summer sweaters where a couple of teachers held forth on the California budget. Tank tops and T-shirts stretched out on a blanket by the pool where some of us wished for a return to shoulder pads. There wasn’t much action at the lingerie table except for a tasty discussion over whether nightgowns or T-shirts are better for sleeping but dont’ do much for your sex life.

The clothes swap is such a good idea I don’t know why men don’t try it. They wouldn’t need hardly as many tables. Maybe one for khaki pants, one for button down shirts, one for those baggy shirts with pictures of surfboards and martini glasses. Here’s an image: a bunch of men walking around in skivvies and black socks asking if plum goes with their hair color.