I am a self diagnosed slob. It’s not just me who agrees with that diagnosis. DH thinks I should get a prize for it. So, I’m a little on the lazy side. But who doesn’t just stare at that wadded up grocery list that somehow managed to work its way into the corner of the kitchen floor every time they walk by it? It takes some serious energy bending down to that level at our age. Or any age really. Please.
My “office” space makes Oscar look like Martha Stewart (Oscar the Grouch or Oscar Madison? It could go either way.). Every time I eat, something inevitably ends up on my shirt. One of the things on my ever growing “to do” list is to buy stock in OxyClean. And my closet? That’s a whole different story. I actually haven’t really entered my closet, like really entered it, in a while. My summer clothes are kept in a drawer and so are my jeans. My closet also contains clothes that are predominately to be worn in an office setting and since I can’t find a job in an office setting, they have been hanging there pretty much collecting everything but my dry skin for years.
I decided to venture into my closet, I would say about 17 days ago, because DH and I were going to go out to dinner. It was a chilly evening and I thought a cute sweater with some jeans would be good. My closet is not nice. The Kid has a huge walk in closet. I don’t know who designed this house, but they got it wrong and it pisses me off. Really pisses me off. I have the type of closet that is about 2 feet deep by 6 feet long with bi-level doors. Is that what they are called? Bi-level? I don’t even know. But the type where when you pull on the knob, they fold in half. Hey, I never claimed to be a closet OR door aficionado so get off my back.
Well, when I opened my little bi-level doors, I was smacked in the face with a major mess. The shelf at the top is spilling over with pocketbooks I’ve had since the Bush administration. The first Bush. Lingerie that I will never, ever wear because they were my mothers (there’s a very good explanation) and shoes that have sentimental value to me. Including caked-on-dried-up-mud-on-the-heels wedding shoes from 1992.
98% of my tops are hanging from wire hangers. And anything that has not been worn since my first temp job at a now-defunct pharmaceutical company seems to have a slight layer of dust on them. Okay, so maybe a bit more than “slight.” It seems that a very wet cloth is in order. And forget about the floor. I have shoes that fell out of style when The Fanny Pack came into style. And dust bunnies that have grown into full grown rabbits. Big ass mean rabbits with fangs.
Since I was trying to get ready to go out to dinner with DH, and I’m pretty sure he was talking about going out to dinner that evening not next Tuesday, I had to pick something and get out. Quick. But there was another problem. I soon discovered that nothing fit. Nothing.
So, I need to clean out my closet. Not only because it is the pig sty from hell but because what is the point of allowing clothes that do not fit take up perfectly good real estate. I thought for sure that that would be a project I would do while recuperating from my surgery. But it turns out that I can’t stand for more than a few minutes without it feeling like a big rubber band has wrapped itself around the middle of my leg.
And anyway, I really hate projects. What will happen is I will be all enthusiastic and start tossing clothes into a heap. Then I will look at this heap and it will suddenly feel overwhelming. And then I am going to want to do everything BUT clean up that heap. Like go pour myself a glass of wine or try to run around the block with my broken knee because that pain would probably be better than the pain of cleaning up a mess that I willingly created all on my own without anyone telling me to.
Yesterday I decided to bite the bullet and start on Project Closet regardless of what my knee felt like. I pulled on the little knobs and opened the doors. I started to the right by grabbing a fistful of hangers with dresses on them. I stared at these dresses for a minute. Placed them back and closed the doors. Then cursed in my mind. Well, actually I cursed out loud but no one was there to hear me so it’s basically the same thing. Then went downstairs and watched reruns of “Grey’s Anatomy” before they killed off Dr. McSteamy. Damn. I miss that man. And maybe I’ll clean my closet tomorrow. Maybe.