I’m a pack rat. I have plastic containers full of items—some tiny, some even broken—that I keep for nostalgic reasons. But spring is here and that means I really need to do some cleaning.
I have clothes in my closet I haven’t been able to fit into for decades, but there they are, taking up room on my hangars. Why? Because they’re still good, or the dress belonged to my mother, or it was the dress I wore to my daughter’s wedding. My favorite excuse is, “I used to love that outfit. How can I part with it?” Okay, it’s three sizes too small, but…but…
I feel physical pain when I look at all the geegaws I’ve accumulated over the years. Little plaques with sayings, lapel pins, old pairs of glasses, erasers in funny shapes, embroidered handkerchiefs—all were given to me, or belonged to a family member, or whatever. I have lots of excuses.
I won’t even start on the kitchen where I have two Cuisinards I don’t use, plus a Bullet with a full set of glasses, lots of crystal bowls and silver-plated trays and bowls, badly in need of polish, I will never use again.
Does this sound a bit overwhelming? It does to me. That’s why I’ve never tackled it. But I’ve decided to start by first determining who might want a bag of Amazon gift bags, a bag of unused Christmas greeting cards, and a big cardboard box full of old jewelry, used clothing, and whatever else I force myself to part with. Surely I can donate some of it.
Then there are the books—three eight-foot bookcases full. Those are less of a problem because I just joined my local Friends of the Library and they are always looking for used books. The rare ones are already designated for appropriate historical societies, and my parents’ yearbooks will go to my nieces.
So there you have it. A sad story of a woman who really, really needs to start culling the stuff in the closets. I haven’t psyched myself up yet to part with my treasures, but I’m determined to start. How about cleaning out the gift-wrapping bags—all four of them? Yes? Surely, there’s nothing in there that has a memory attached.
I haven’t even mentioned the tools, bolts, nails, odd pieces of wood, hasps, etc. my husband has in the garage.
But that’s another story.
PS: I write kissing books. You can find me here: