Earlier this week, my roommate brought in a personal organizer to help her with her office and bedroom. Or maybe the woman should be called an organizing expert. I don't know what the official job title is, but the end result is a much tidier space. Looking at Meg's freshly neatened closet made me glare at my own disastrously messy one. In my defense, mine is pretty Lilliputian. Still.
Today I began a brutal, scorched-earth organization project. I don't buy a ton of random stuff, but it's still horrifying to see how many unnecessary things were lurking in my bedroom. Pilates kit, baseball hat, feathered cat toys, knit mittens, on and on.
In going through my clothes, I realized how much emotional attachment I assign to certain outfits. Hell, I still remember the dress I wore to dinner 13 years ago today. (Patchwork, clipped in the back, worn with old-man cardigan sweater. In retrospect, it was impressively unattractive.)
Today I evaluated every piece in my closet, and so many memories came back. The blue flutter-sleeve blouse is a sweltering day in Nara, September 2006. Black sailor pants are a walk down Damen to Rice Street, April 2003. The cherry red off-shoulder dress — a stunner that is as beautiful as it is impractical — is dinner in New York, September 2008.
Those associations are joyful; others are not as light. A red t-shirt reminds me of being at the nursing home during Dad's last days. The tags remain on a backless dress bought for a date that never happened; there has been no reason to show off my spine otherwise. High-heeled shoes gather dust; they can't be worn anymore because doing so hurts my foot in new ways.
I've been trying to assign new meanings to those things, but today I gave up. Sometimes the only way you can win is to admit that you can't. So I pulled a few things out of my closet, gave them one last look, folded them into crisp squares, and put them in a box to be carried out of the house tomorrow. Someone will create new stories for them.
As for now, the organizer is redoing our kitchen to create better feng shui. (Oh, San Francisco!) She says we've had a money block due to the placement of our recycling and bar storage. "Now you'll be rich," she joked. Not counting on that, but in getting rid of five bags' worth of stuff, I do feel like I've got a little more physical and mental space.
Today I began a brutal, scorched-earth organization project. I don't buy a ton of random stuff, but it's still horrifying to see how many unnecessary things were lurking in my bedroom. Pilates kit, baseball hat, feathered cat toys, knit mittens, on and on.
In going through my clothes, I realized how much emotional attachment I assign to certain outfits. Hell, I still remember the dress I wore to dinner 13 years ago today. (Patchwork, clipped in the back, worn with old-man cardigan sweater. In retrospect, it was impressively unattractive.)
Today I evaluated every piece in my closet, and so many memories came back. The blue flutter-sleeve blouse is a sweltering day in Nara, September 2006. Black sailor pants are a walk down Damen to Rice Street, April 2003. The cherry red off-shoulder dress — a stunner that is as beautiful as it is impractical — is dinner in New York, September 2008.
Those associations are joyful; others are not as light. A red t-shirt reminds me of being at the nursing home during Dad's last days. The tags remain on a backless dress bought for a date that never happened; there has been no reason to show off my spine otherwise. High-heeled shoes gather dust; they can't be worn anymore because doing so hurts my foot in new ways.
I've been trying to assign new meanings to those things, but today I gave up. Sometimes the only way you can win is to admit that you can't. So I pulled a few things out of my closet, gave them one last look, folded them into crisp squares, and put them in a box to be carried out of the house tomorrow. Someone will create new stories for them.
As for now, the organizer is redoing our kitchen to create better feng shui. (Oh, San Francisco!) She says we've had a money block due to the placement of our recycling and bar storage. "Now you'll be rich," she joked. Not counting on that, but in getting rid of five bags' worth of stuff, I do feel like I've got a little more physical and mental space.
Labels: neuroses
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