Back again

It's been a while since I've journaled my tidying journey.  It's moved beyond the mundane (yet cleansing) activities of cleaning house, tossing junk, etc.  Although that certainly continues.

But now it's gotten personal.

I was laid off from my job today.  Did I see it coming?  Yes.  Was it personal?  No, there are quite a few of us being let go.  Why did it happen?  I can put hand on heart and say it wasn't about me or my work, which somehow makes it easier to cope.  It's about the company, and its attempt to survive. They're in trouble.  Its products are stale, its offerings clumsy and expensive, they're selling to customers who are looking for innovation, and they're selling into an industry that is changing profoundly and dealing with its own issues.  So the marketing and sales team is being culled.  Only the high rolling senior management and the younger, less expensive junior team remains.

Actually, I'm okay with it.  I've long felt that I'm supposed to go elsewhere, do something else.  I don't think it's a midlife crisis? Unless that's defined by feeling like I'm wasting my time and talents in ways that add little value to the world.  But it gave me a nice paycheck, was close to home, and I liked many of the people that I used to work with.

I think my job now is to clean this up.  Get rid of the files, refresh my network, spend some quality time thinking and praying, and wait upon the Lord for the next steps to become clearer.  I don't think it's my job to be passive and lazy (tempting as that may be) but to be patient.  That's not easy for me, I want to rush ahead, take control, own the outcome.  Maybe downshifting a bit will keep me from blasting by things that I should be noticing.

So I'll clear away the physical, emotional, and mental messes of my last career chapter, applying the same principles.  Keep only what adds value to my life.  Toss what doesn't.  Look at things carefully, but not stall.  This is a lot like the sock drawer, but harder and more important, I wonder what I'll find in my tidy new space?

It's not just me

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.

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.

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?

Treasure chest

All my life, I've kept a treasure chest.  I still have my original cool little wooden box from my childhood, filled with my then-precious things.  It was originally a stationery box that my mom gave me when I was around 4 or 5 years old; a hinged box actually shaped like a treasure chest, with curved top and a ship painted on top.  It isn't very big -- about the size of a load of bread -- but it was a perfect size for the little treasures of a little girl.  A tiny Disney figurine. A special seashell. My Oscar Meyer wiener whistle (really). A carved wooden bear. And so many other things I can't remember right now. It's not a big box, but it's very big box to me.

That's my original treasure chest, tucked away somewhere in the basement.  Of all the stuff I plan to tidy up down there this year, that chest is one thing that I'm really looking forward to finding again. It will be the reward for that huge tidying up task.

But in the meantime, almost without meaning to, I've added another box over the years, and it's become my current treasure chest.  This box is bigger.  It's not huge ... around the size of a picnic basket, but shaped like a small steamer trunk. Its contents are from about the past 30 years or so. (Yikes, I'm getting old.)  It lives on the top shelf of my closet.  I went through that chest this past week, looking through all its treasures.  A pretty key chain.  A shiny, flower-shaped magnet. A silver yo-yo.  An embroidered coin purse. And much more. Most of the things in that box still have specific memories attached to them, like the string of worry beads from Greece given to me by an old boyfriend, or the tiny painted box filled with potpourri from an old friend, or that little metal rabbit charm from my dad. But a lot of the treasures don't have memories, they have only special feelings. Why does that pencil with a tube of pebbles on top make me happy?  Why does the miniature padlock feel so special? Why do I care about that round metal mirror? Somewhere inside of me, all of these things mean - or meant - something.

Yes, I got rid of some of the contents of the box during my tidying.  Things never belonged there, or whose meaning has drained away.  Somewhere along the line some of the treasures turned into flotsam and jetsam that I don't need. But the things that are left now have room to breathe, and the box is still quite full. None of these little items represent huge, milestone moments in my life. They're small objects, with small memories and faint feelings.  And maybe that's the point.  Taken one at a time, they're no big deal.  But taken together, they comprise many of the moments, feelings, and occasions that are making up my life and have made me happy.  I guess life really is lived in the small moments. Perhaps I should focus more on those from now on.

Black knee socks

I have way too many black knee-high socks.  What the hell is that all about?  Yes, I wear them frequently under slacks and jeans, or with boots.  But I have (correction, had) a collection that would outfit a Catholic girls' school for a year.  Honestly, there must have been about three dozen pair in that drawer. The black tight collection wasn't far behind.  And that's not counting all the other colors.

My little book's author is adamant about the "right" way to fold stuff .  Not binding them, allowing them to follow their own pattern, not interfering with their energy flow, allowing them to breathe. Stuff like that. Who knew?  For instance, she's pretty clear that one should not tie socks together, or stretch the tops out to make tight little balls -- she insists they should be rolled gently "like sushi". I'm not an expert in sushi, but I tried this, out of curiosity. I certainly had enough socks to experiment with. First I got rid of all the ratty ones that always seem to end up on the top of the drawer (a hint as to why I had so many, I'm not going to ponder it beyond that). Then I rolled up the survivors and lined them up in the drawer, on end. They don't look much like sushi. And those little footsie stockings look more like meatballs.  But they certainly take up a lot less room, and are easier to see and access, which I suppose is the point.

One odd moment was when I discovered two new packages of pantyhose that my mom gave me at the bottom of the drawer. She was forever buying them in strange colors (bright blue and off-white this time), deciding she didn't like them or was too old for them (she was right about that), then giving them to me.  We didn't even wear the same size; I'm not fat, but she was seriously skinny. And she's been dead for three years. I found that I could purge them without feeling like I was giving a piece of her away; I'm not sure I could have done that a year ago.  This is progress.

The book author recommends shoe boxes to keep socks and lingerie together and in place in the drawers.  I am not going to all this work and then using old shoe boxes -- this much effort requires retail.  So I bought some of those nifty cedar drawer dividers, and now all my socks, tights, lingerie, and such stuff are all organized and neatly in place. Still a few too many black socks, but at least I won't buy new ones for a long time.

I'm falling back into organizing vs. purging, I see, but I suppose this is my way of rewarding myself for what I've thrown out so far -- and there's been a lot of it, about 30% of my clothes, I'm guessing.  I keep going into the closet to look at how open and accessible it all is, and opening drawers.  Nothing lurking under other clothes on a hanger, nothing collecting dust in the back.  No secrets or forgotten chapters.  Which is really what the purge is all about, and I don't mean simply my clothes. Confront it, assess it, decide whether to keep it or purge it, then get closure about it and move on.

The clothing is almost done, except for the coat closet and an odd article or two that keep surfacing.  I haven't unlocked any great revelations or truths about what this sudden desire to tidy up means. But as I clear out the old I think it will be much easier to focus on where I'm going next, instead of getting mired down and distracted about where I've been.  I can't retreat into cleaning up the past if I've already cleaned it up.  And maybe having a clear path behind me will give me a clear path in front of me.


 

Okay, I lied

I really thought I was done dealing with the past work clothes (and by default, closing that career chapter). But apparently not. It was easy enough to get rid of the basic around-the-office slacks, tasteful yet bland sweaters and blazers, and the overly conservative costumes we all default to on our normal, routine, office days of endless internal meetings, PowerPoint deck creation and presentation, paper shuffling, email composition, and personal positioning with whomever is the power broker du jour who can make our work lives easier, or make them a living hell.  Off those clothes go, via Purple Heart, to someone else plodding away trying to make a living in big company corporate America. And the memories of that mind-numbing time along with it.

In my current job, I can wear more casual, more interesting clothes.  There are lots of negatives in my current job that I'll think about later, but the clothing thing is definitely a positive.

But towards the back of the closet are three business suits that I haven't worn in at least 10 years.  As I reached for them during my latest tidying up project, I froze.  I just couldn't take them off the rail. No, no, no. What was going on?

I've been thinking about those suits ever since. Yes, they're really cute, and suit me (pun intended) much better than the dull office attire ever did.  And they still fit nicely, so it's not a wishful thinking if-only-I-were-still-a-size-eight kind of thing.  And they're still stylish, because they're classic, sleek and sophisticated.  I was assuming it was an unwillingness to get rid of something expensive and in great condition, even though I don't need them now.  But I've done a lot of that sort of purging already so I don't think that's quite it.

When I mentioned the suits to my husband, he immediately remembered them too -- along with some great memories that they carried. During that brief (3 - 4 year) career phase when I wore them a lot, I loved my job. Loved it, loved it. We lived in Europe, I traveled the world, met interesting people, did valued work for people I enjoyed, and had a blast. I knew it couldn't last forever, and it didn't. Company management changed, and company priorities changed quickly to match. The "must have innovation imperative for the future" that was my area of expertise overnight became "an overhead burden on our core business proposition".  (Translation: kill anything the previous management championed, especially promising innovation, because new management won't get credit for it). And I, along with others like me, were shuffled into traditional corporate drone roles where we couldn't do damage with out-of-the-box thinking and would occupy safe little niches in the bureaucracy. But while it lasted, it had been the best part of my career. So far, at least. And I think that was simply because I was respected, listened to for my creative ideas, able to think freely, and in demand by people I admired and respected myself without a thought for corporate titles and org charts and other such management currency.

And I found out something deep inside that I didn't realize I knew.  Basically, I was really comfortable with who I was when I wore those suits and I'm not ready to give up that feeling -- or the suits. I want to feel that way again about my work, regardless of what I do or wear. So I'm hanging on to those suits for a while longer, to see what else they can teach me.