I am not a hoarder like the nutbags you see on television, I just have a hard time throwing things away. OK, by definition, maybe I am a hoarder. I have decided to try to do something about that so that when I get foreclosed, I can travel light and it won’t be so hard to live out of a 1999 Bravada. With that in mind, I have gradually begun to unclutter my life.
Late last night Jack Daniels and I decided to pull my stockpile of clothes out of the closets (though I live in a condo I have two walk-in closets, go figure) and cull them. I put on the play list you are listening to right now (if your sound is on) and set to work.
It has been well-documented, if you have read past posts of this blog, that though I am an intelligent, well-educated, man, I am not very task oriented. I have almost no practical skills. If you gave a set of directions and a tool box to both a chimpanzee and me, the chimp would design a lunar excursion module long before I could assemble an IKEA desk. People that know me know this to be an undisputed truth.
Right now, I have a cabinet door that’s hinges are held on by one of the four screws required. As an alternative to replacing the hinges (which I have no hope of doing), I have developed a rather inventive propping system. The fact that each time I open the door it falls off does not seem to annoy me enough to attempt a repair.
Skooter was totally annoyed by this process as not only were the clothes taking up a large portion of the couch, which he considers his, but usually when I get dressed it means we are going somewhere. Every time I tried something on he went to the door. Finally he just got exasperated and laid down on his bed, sort of.
I arranged all the clothing into three groups: 1) those that I can or will never wear again, 2) those that I can (with some effort), will, or do wear, and debris. I have to tell you that only the trained eye can tell the difference. Though I am totally useless, I am a manic organizer (OCD). By the time I had finalized my categorization it was 3 AM and nearly bedtime. Skooter and I took the trash to the dumpster and I left the two huge heaps of my livery in place and headed to bed. Skooter inspected my work, chuffed, and followed me. I had a plan. I would get up in the morning, bag the cast-offs, and take them to homeless shelters.
This morning, I did just that. I filled two lawn and garden size, black, trash bags, and headed out to donate. I felt so good about myself that I stopped and picked up some barbeque to take home as a reward.
Arriving home, I decided to eat the pulled pork before concluding my mission, which involved the putting away of my downsized wardrobe. Sitting on the couch, admiring my work, I noticed a pair of chinos that I was sure should have gone to the donation stack. Closer examination revealed several such items. Frak! I had bagged the wrong heap.
So, I now have another mountain of clothes to donate and only the items that were in my ready line, and not subject to triage, to actually wear. The only winner (duh) from this situation is some really fat homeless guy who plays a lot of golf.
This is why I normally don’t do anything. If you do nothing, you can’t screw it up.
