Member-only story
I’ve always been a minimalist. Of sorts. I’m not a knick-knack sort of gal. I don’t collect shoes or clothes. In fact, I have a hard and fast rule — when something new goes into the closet — something already there has to come out. Having this rule means I need to LOVE the new something because I’m going to be giving up a something I already have to make room for it.
When I pick up a thing I own — I ponder it. Have I used it in the last year? Six months? No? — Then time to give it to someone who needs it. Because frankly — if I haven’t needed it in six months — I can live without it.
Everyone sit down — I have one box in my attic. It is full of shit which belonged to my father. For reasons equally comprised of personal trauma and a severe allergy to mold — the box remains unopened in my attic where it will not cause me to wheeze. One day, after I’m dead, my kids can burn that sucker. But for reasons which are still unclear, I just can’t. And I’m not willing to shell out the co-pays to my therapist at this point to sort it out.
I’m good — that’s the only ‘baggage’ I have from my less than stellar childhood. One moldy box. In my attic.
Tonight I attacked the guest room closet. It had been a catch-all since I’ve been living here on my own. Six years worth. Time to regroup. It’s nearly empty now. Just a couple things in there for when the grandkids come…
