Dec 30 2010
Delayed Sort
For the last 20 years, Dale and I have moved often. The shortest stay at any location was 3 months; the longest stay was 3 1/2 years. It did not matter if we wanted to move or if we were ready to move, the Army would declare our time at a specific location finished and give us PCS (Permanent Change of Station) orders and a date on which the movers would arrive.
Once we had the mover’s date, the clock would start ticking for me. Before the movers arrival, I was determined to look at every item in our home and get rid of most of it. I knew it was likely that our next living accommodation would be smaller than our current one, that the storage would be lacking, and that I’d be irritated if I opened a box upon arrival at the new location and thought, “Why do I still have this stuff?”
My children can attest that, over the years, I have been ruthless in this sorting out. They still remember most horrifyingly the 100+ stuffed animals being laid end to end and the painful process of choosing.
The Army has issued us orders that take effect in two days, but for once, they do not involve a move. Dale, in his suit and beard, must drive to another location for work, but I can stay put. I don’t have to move.
Strangely, the clock is still ticking.
I have ignored it for quite awhile.
“You’ve got to go through the house! You’ve got to get rid of stuff!” echoes through my brain.
The habit is relentless and does not wish to be done away with.
The busyness of every day life pushed it to the side. There is always laundry, meals, cleaning, shopping, bills, children, pets. Then, everything stopped at 3am Christmas morning, and I stopped with it. I was done doing things for others. For the next several days, I read two books, I worked a puzzle, I watched football.
The kids and Dale picked up and straightened. When they came to ask me where this or that went, I got irritated. “Can’t you just put things in a pile for me to look at later?” I growled. I did not want to start the sort. Once I start, I am a bit nuts until I finish.
(At this point, while reading this, Dale thinks to himself, “Isn’t she always a bit nuts?”)
Yesterday, my stuff started to attack me. I keep my sweaters in a precarious pile at the top of my closet. I cannot reach up there, so I fold my sweaters and toss them up. It would be much more functional to keep my sweaters in my dresser. Unfortunately, my dresser is full of clothes that don’t fit and I don’t wear. (Here start’s my hazardous mobius strip.) As I attempted to grab a sweater, the whole pile came down upon my head. “I will not start the sort,” I thought, and hurriedly piled them on top of another pile on my dresser.
Next, I went to clean the bathroom. (A friend of Gabe’s was coming to play.) I opened the door under the sink, reached in for the cleaner and everything fell out. (I know I am not supposed to have cleaner under the sink, but the secure cabinet above the stove is so piled with stuff that the cleaner won’t fit.)
I wanted once again to proclaim, “I will not start the sort!” Instead, fearing the third assault by my stuff might involve gardening tools or cutlery, I declared war.
The sort would start now.
It will always remain a mystery to me how one family can collect 30+ partially used bottles of hair product, soap, powder, lotion, and cream in 3 1/2 years. I am convinced my stuff multiplies in the dark and then becomes arrogant enough to launch an assault.
Unfortunately for my stuff, it does not realize the wisdom of remaining quiet. In 3 1/2 years, it has forgotten what a heartless enemy it fights.