One recent complaint in my house is that there is not enough closet space. We recently purged six bags of worn out clothing and yet our closets still burst with it. I hardly think I’m buying new items at the same rate of disposal, but there’s definitely a problem. In my defense, my current closet is in a temporary location for the time being. We started re-insulating our attic in the spring, and the only access is from my bedroom closet. It quickly became too hot to venture up there, and the project is yet unfinished. The insulation rolls sat like a giant pink turd in our bedroom for 3 months until I recently moved them to the empty closet—out of sight until I can bear to be in the attic for more than five seconds.
That being said, other issues remain. WE. HAVE. TOO. MUCH. CRAP. Plain and simple, there are not enough places to store the various trappings of our cumulative 60 years of existence. And why do I hold on to such nonsense anyway?? I believe a lot of it comes from my Mother whom, bless her heart, is the queen of amassing meaningless junk. (But don’t tell her it’s meaningless because she’ll fight you tooth-and-nail.) I still can’t convince her to stop buying me the little tchochkes she thinks I’ll love. She’s gotten better, but she’s still not cured. The most recent example is a bar sign with a big 3-dimensional monk on it. “It’ll be great for your bar!” She elated. I think I remember telling her we were making a Tiki Bar, but she was so enamored with this sign, that she had to buy it for me. I feel bad for not taking it home with me, but it probably would have been another item to add to the pile of garage sale swag. Plus, she occasionally pesters me to take some of the stuff in her curio cabinet that was given to me as a child. I took a small handful of things that have meaning to me, but the plastic Precious Moments snow globe can either stay there or go in the trash.
Mike is no better off than I am—worse, in fact! His dad has so many collections; I don’t even know where to begin: the coins, the mini liquor bottles, the hundreds of VHS tapes of recorded TV shows, and the list goes on and on. Mike is not nearly as bad, but some of his dad’s habits have naturally passed to him.
We are both predispositioned to be collectors and it’s killing our home life. Our stuff has taken over two rooms of our house that are now pretty much dead to us. I can’t remember the last time I opened the door to the guest room downstairs. Mike seems to take the passive stance and allow the stuff to keep growing. But I get agitated until the breaking point and eventually go on a stress-induced cleaning spree. Unfortunately, this solution is only short-term because I merely organize the mess. But the fact remains that it’s still clutter, only prettier. Eventually, my pretty piles become catastrophes and the vicious cycle continues. It’s simply maddening!! No wonder I’m so frustrated at home.
Mike sent me this poignant article today. I pretty much agree with all of it—except the part about books. We have books that are, of course, invaluable and will never be discarded, but we also have scores of books that we will never read and need to go! I think it’s time for a mass exodus. I yearn to be free from the bondage of all our nagging stuff!
