Happy new year, gentle readers. I hope this year brings peace, harmony, joy, a sense of humor and therefore some fun to your lives. May my darling husband, Sir, get over his bout of cold/bronchitis and general lurgy before too much more time elapses.
Each year I vaguely think over resolutions I should make, but don’t because I know the likelihood of my achieving them are about as strong as my actual desire to achieve them.
This year is different, however. Usually resolutions revolve around oneself. Lose weight, exercise more, give up (insert noun covering unlovely habits here). Nay, nay I say, this year I am resolved to de-clutter.
You know when you first moved into your current residence, everything is neatly packed away in cupboards and closets and everything is positively tickety-boo for a little while. After a bit, you acquire something that should go in that closet, but there’s no room, so it’s moved to another closet, accompanied by the oft-heard vow that “I will remember where I put it.” Yeah, right. That something sits in its new home snickering quietly, knowing that you have about as much hope of remembering its location as you do of making the ascent on Mount Everest with only a diaper bag and a pack of Tootsie Rolls.
I now have three such closets, not to mention a bunch of cupboards harboring snickering things which need reorganizing. It’s gotten so bad the living room now looks a little like “clean up an aisle 5” at Costco.
So, I resolve to systematically and methodically attack each closet with a mind to logic, unsentimental good sense, and just a touch of ruthlessness thrown in.
My mother was a devoted hoarder, my father the exact opposite, and I generally tend toward Dad’s way of thinking but with a hefty dose of laziness thrown in.
I will arm myself with a variety of shapes of storage boxes, and I will give myself one task per week. I will toss, donate and keep with a frenzy that will stun my family. I will not think “that may come in handy one day,” as I find the minute you say it, that day never comes and even if it does – well, you guessed it – you can’t remember where you put it.
My ex was like that. He’d find a nail on the ground and put it in his pocket because “you never know.” To be fair, he did spend nine months camping across Africa, and I suppose a nail in one’s pocket could indeed be a lifesaver, but not so much here in sleepy Lee’s Summit.
I will render my living room livable again. I will organize my closets with Mensa-level brilliance. No more will I panic-buy Christmas wrapping paper because I will indeed know how much I have, which currently will see me through 2030. Our guest room will have a welcoming empty closet – please take note, Sooz.
And just a teeny-tiny word of warning to dear Sir. Get better dear. Quickly. You don’t want to be caught up in Annie’s de-cluttering, or you might find yourself sitting on a “one day sale” table at Goodwill.
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at email@example.com.