I’m dying to show someone my bedroom closet. It’s a well-organized thing of beauty.
At least, for right now.
During my recent two days home sick from work—battling a bone-rattling cough and hiding out from Chicagoland’s negative-14-degree weather—I got the sudden urge to purge the clutter from my bedroom closet and kitchen cabinets.
I have to be in the right frame of mind to sort with true effectiveness. That frame of mind is somewhere between Army drill sergeant and Peace Corps volunteer. I need to be ruthless, fighting the temptation to hang onto that gaudy blouse because I once received a compliment while wearing it. And I need to be benevolent, thinking of all the needy people who could drink from the 57 mugs I’ve somehow collected over the years.
However, this mindset strikes me with the frequency of a lunar eclipse. So when the urge hits, I need to just go with it—copious amounts of phlegm or not.
I used to experience this mindset more frequently when I had a roommate. Actually, I think the mindset was less of a motivator than was my pride—either saving my pride in not wanting my roommate to see me as messy, or boosting my pride in having her oooh and ahhh over my work.
So the other day when I stepped back to admire my closet-cleaning handiwork, I wanted to turn to someone and say, “Am I impressive, or what?” But then, to truly appreciate my achievement, my companion would have needed to see the “before,” with shoes and purses obscuring the floor and an extra 87 hangers clogging up the works. I’d gathered up four trash bags of clothes, shoes, and purses to give away. And then I’d moved on to the kitchen and gathered another two bags of mugs and Tupperware containers. (I’m convinced some of these objects mate and multiply when I’m not looking.)
My strange need for a witness reminded me of that old philosophical question asking whether a tree falling in a forest really makes a sound if no one’s around to hear it. Suddenly I found myself wondering, If a single person cleans out a closet and no one’s around to woohoo it, does the accomplishment really count?
Instead of an adoring audience, I was alone, clapping over my cleanliness . . . and vowing not to shop again for months.
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