So I just read this article in WSJ about this little tidying up book. Apparently, it's something of a worldwide phenomenon. Who knew? Yes, I knew I wasn't the only one captured by it, or buying it ... I realized it was selling well if it showed up in my little independent bookstore in town.
The WSJ article gives a scholarly peruse of the market segment this book appeals to, its demographic, and the cultural movement that it apparently represents. Whatever. It's me -- but it's not me. I don't fit the demographic they mention. I am not young and hip. Nor do I fit the cultural movement of self-improvement. At least I don't think I do. I'm certainly not one of the people taking pictures of their underwear drawer and sharing them with the world online. Sheesh.
The plus side of the article is there's a little video to show the "correct" way to fold clothing, which could explain the sock meatballs I created. But I like them, and they work pretty well. The meatballs stay.
I'm just a middle-aged lady who's tired of being chained to too many things I don't value. Stuff I don't want to own, a job that pays the bills nicely but that I don't like any more in an industry that bores me, good memories that get buried under bad ones because the latter haven't been sorted out, processed, and discarded.
For me, it's just about traveling lighter, because I'm ready to travel (figuratively, done too much literally) and I can't do that without tidying up some. But I could spend the rest of my life sorting and stalling, so this year. Anything that isn't sorted, processed, and tidied by year's end gets trashed.
But in the meantime, doing our taxes has stalled my cleanup. So back to the paperwork first, then on to the next milestone of tidying up.
Friday, February 27, 2015
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Ooops
Every once in a while my husband and I have to go into our mystery boxes in the basement. The ones that store stuff that never was unpacked from our last move, or had been left with our parents, or are just full of stuff we didn't know what to do with. I'm trying to save these boxes for the last phase of the big purge, but sometimes we need to look for something and they inevitably get opened.
And this last week we happened to open a box that I definitely don't want to share with him. It's one that was stored at my parents' house, and hadn't been opened in many years. When we opened it, turns out it was full of my stuff from the early 90's. During my party girl phase. There were a couple of really slutty leather and spandex dresses on top, from my clubbing days. I distracted my husband with those dresses (which wasn't hard), and quickly got the rest of the box out of the way. Because I suddenly remembered what else was in it, and NO WAY were we going through that box together.
The memories of those days came flooding back -- not all of them good. I enjoyed the partying, being really thin and young and pretty and looking just great in those trampy dresses (gotta love the 90's). But I definitely did not feel great about the reason why I was partying so heavily in the first place.
My heart was broken. My first marriage had blown up, when my ex-husband left me suddenly. It wasn't even over someone else, which might have been easier to process. He just left, saying that he needed to pursue his destiny -- with a weird indifference that tore me to bits. He didn't even file for divorce. He couldn't be bothered, he was too busy, it wasn't relevant. I had to handle it all myself. I later read something about the symptoms of major depressive disorder, which fit him to a tee, so I am diagnosing him in absentia. But at this point, who cares?
Anyway, instead of giving in to the pain and quietly licking my wounds when he left, this quiet little introvert went nuts. My healing was loud, and messy, and not at all dignified -- accompanied by a sound track of loud club music, fast driving, laughter, staggering around drunk, and a whole lot of really dumb decisions.
I wasn't completely stupid, mind you. I never was one for drugs (I like my brain as it is, thanks) unlike some of my friends who ended up pretty messed up from those days. Although I drank like a fish. And drove that way. And hung out with people I shouldn't have, mainly men. I don't want to relive the details of all that, even to myself. Thankfully, I never got in real trouble. I mean ever, which is really quite amazing, because I should have done so, with the cops, or some guy, or at work -- something. My guardian angel was working some serious overtime in those days, for which I'm eternally thankful. But I partied and played, and got a lot of anger, angst, frustration, confusion and plain old fear of being alone out of my system. I grew up a little, or maybe a lot. And when I was tired of it all, I just stopped.
I met my current and forever husband several years later, after I had moved away and my life was back online again. And it is an awesome marriage, so it all ended well. He knows that I hadn't been sitting home knitting and waiting for him to appear in my life. But it can't be healthy to take him through the Museum of my Painful Personal Growth and Embarrassment. Interestingly, my friends from those days (those without fried brains, I mean) are now all fairly normal, somewhat sedate grown ups, too. Probably with memories of their crazy youth packed away in boxes in their own basements.
So what's in the box? I'll have to check to be sure, but as I recall, it's got more party clothes, some gifts from boyfriends (appropriate and not so much so), and most importantly -- a collection of letters and photos that I need to destroy ASAP. Yikes, those are really compromising. Why did I keep them? Oh yeah, and I'm pretty sure that at the bottom of the box is my old wedding dress. From the one that didn't take. Sigh.
Fortunately, my guardian angel seems to be on the job still, because my husband is going on a business trip in a couple of weeks. A perfect time to get that box gone, ditch whatever is in it, and make sure its contents exist only in the back of my mind where I can file them away and not show them to anyone, or even think about them myself.
And this last week we happened to open a box that I definitely don't want to share with him. It's one that was stored at my parents' house, and hadn't been opened in many years. When we opened it, turns out it was full of my stuff from the early 90's. During my party girl phase. There were a couple of really slutty leather and spandex dresses on top, from my clubbing days. I distracted my husband with those dresses (which wasn't hard), and quickly got the rest of the box out of the way. Because I suddenly remembered what else was in it, and NO WAY were we going through that box together.
The memories of those days came flooding back -- not all of them good. I enjoyed the partying, being really thin and young and pretty and looking just great in those trampy dresses (gotta love the 90's). But I definitely did not feel great about the reason why I was partying so heavily in the first place.
My heart was broken. My first marriage had blown up, when my ex-husband left me suddenly. It wasn't even over someone else, which might have been easier to process. He just left, saying that he needed to pursue his destiny -- with a weird indifference that tore me to bits. He didn't even file for divorce. He couldn't be bothered, he was too busy, it wasn't relevant. I had to handle it all myself. I later read something about the symptoms of major depressive disorder, which fit him to a tee, so I am diagnosing him in absentia. But at this point, who cares?
Anyway, instead of giving in to the pain and quietly licking my wounds when he left, this quiet little introvert went nuts. My healing was loud, and messy, and not at all dignified -- accompanied by a sound track of loud club music, fast driving, laughter, staggering around drunk, and a whole lot of really dumb decisions.
I wasn't completely stupid, mind you. I never was one for drugs (I like my brain as it is, thanks) unlike some of my friends who ended up pretty messed up from those days. Although I drank like a fish. And drove that way. And hung out with people I shouldn't have, mainly men. I don't want to relive the details of all that, even to myself. Thankfully, I never got in real trouble. I mean ever, which is really quite amazing, because I should have done so, with the cops, or some guy, or at work -- something. My guardian angel was working some serious overtime in those days, for which I'm eternally thankful. But I partied and played, and got a lot of anger, angst, frustration, confusion and plain old fear of being alone out of my system. I grew up a little, or maybe a lot. And when I was tired of it all, I just stopped.
I met my current and forever husband several years later, after I had moved away and my life was back online again. And it is an awesome marriage, so it all ended well. He knows that I hadn't been sitting home knitting and waiting for him to appear in my life. But it can't be healthy to take him through the Museum of my Painful Personal Growth and Embarrassment. Interestingly, my friends from those days (those without fried brains, I mean) are now all fairly normal, somewhat sedate grown ups, too. Probably with memories of their crazy youth packed away in boxes in their own basements.
So what's in the box? I'll have to check to be sure, but as I recall, it's got more party clothes, some gifts from boyfriends (appropriate and not so much so), and most importantly -- a collection of letters and photos that I need to destroy ASAP. Yikes, those are really compromising. Why did I keep them? Oh yeah, and I'm pretty sure that at the bottom of the box is my old wedding dress. From the one that didn't take. Sigh.
Fortunately, my guardian angel seems to be on the job still, because my husband is going on a business trip in a couple of weeks. A perfect time to get that box gone, ditch whatever is in it, and make sure its contents exist only in the back of my mind where I can file them away and not show them to anyone, or even think about them myself.
We're On a Break
My tidying up book recommends 6 months to complete the clean up of a home. When I first read this, I thought it was too long. How long could it take, really?
But now I think it's not long enough. Not because I have that much stuff (although I have plenty). But because it's exhausting, time-consuming, emotionally draining and sometimes just a big boring drag. You've got to be in a brisk, ruthless mood to keep at this get-rid-of-it business. And who feels like that all the time? When I find myself second guessing what I purge, organizing instead of tossing, it's time to take a break. Hours, days, or a couple weeks. Anyway, it's pretty pathetic to turn housecleaning into some sort of loser hobby. I want to hang out with friends, or go interesting places, watch a movie, basically have a life. And my closets and drawers are not my life.
This is going to take a year. Easily. Because I'm not going to do this again, or turn it into my life's mission, I'm doing this thing right then I'm not doing it any more.
I'll keep plugging away, I'm not giving up. By the end of the year I will be living only with stuff I want. But I'll be living for real in the meantime.
Maybe that's progress, too?
But now I think it's not long enough. Not because I have that much stuff (although I have plenty). But because it's exhausting, time-consuming, emotionally draining and sometimes just a big boring drag. You've got to be in a brisk, ruthless mood to keep at this get-rid-of-it business. And who feels like that all the time? When I find myself second guessing what I purge, organizing instead of tossing, it's time to take a break. Hours, days, or a couple weeks. Anyway, it's pretty pathetic to turn housecleaning into some sort of loser hobby. I want to hang out with friends, or go interesting places, watch a movie, basically have a life. And my closets and drawers are not my life.
This is going to take a year. Easily. Because I'm not going to do this again, or turn it into my life's mission, I'm doing this thing right then I'm not doing it any more.
I'll keep plugging away, I'm not giving up. By the end of the year I will be living only with stuff I want. But I'll be living for real in the meantime.
Maybe that's progress, too?
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