I do my spring cleaning in the summer time, when it’s so unbearably hot and uncomfortable that I constantly wish I’d actually done the cleaning in the spring. That’s how it’s done, you know — at the most inconvenient time of the year.

Yesterday, I spent the day cleaning out my closets, and aside from all the femurs and skulls in there, I had tons and tons of papers, clothes, knick-knacks, art supplies, books, letters, tapes, and miniature kitchen sinks haphazardly stuffed into boxes galore.

I have no clue why I keep some of these things. More than half of them can be thrown away without my knowing, and I wouldn’t even miss them. I mean, I keep letters from people, even the cards. Sometimes I’ll get a card from some passing acquaintance who gets a kick out of sending everyone in the class or the office a little something on the holidays, and I’ll keep the darn thing even if I barely know the person. All that will actually be on the card — other than the usual insipid Hallmark poetry — is my name, the person’s name, and possibly the date. Every time I come across these things during a cleaning spree, I find myself staring at it and bellowing, “Who the heck is this? I don’t know anyone by that name! Why am I keeping this?!”

I still have all my paycheck stubs from my very first job. Why? I don’t know. I guess I keep thinking the IRS will eventually want some of my paperwork from some 10 years ago. If they haven’t called me yet about them, it’s only because I still have the paperwork; as soon as I throw the paycheck stubs away, the IRS will swoop in and demand to see them. I just know it. It’s how my crazy luck works.

And knick-knacks. Why in the world do I have knick-knacks in my closet? I’m not even a knick-knack kind of girl, so I can only assume that these things were given to me as gifts from people who didn’t even bother to find out what I liked (and no, I really don’t like mirrored glass trays as gifts; I’m not an 80-year-old woman, for crying out loud). I also have a blue plastic briefcase full of stickers and rubber stamps, which is of absolutely no use to me at all. In this instance, I remember that my mother gave it to me, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I was 19 or 20 at the time she gave it to me, I might keep it for the sentimental value alone. As it was, that godawful blue plastic briefcase will be going to Goodwill, where some child might come across it and truly appreciate it.

::Sigh::

The problem is that I have so much of this junk and so little willpower when it comes to throwing stuff away. It’s that prudish “waste not, want not” part of me that hangs on to clothes I wouldn’t even be caught dead wearing. Why do any of us keep this kind of crap? I mean, we can’t take it with us when we leave this world, and it’s certainly not worth leaving to anyone else. We can come back to it 20 years later to reminisce, I suppose, but the true value in a situation like that comes from the memory and not from the item itself. Why, then, do we hoard it away? Yet another mystery of life, huh? Something to contemplate while cleaning out your closets.

So far, I’ve eliminated two big boxes of stuff — that’s two less boxes of stuff to worry about when I’m lying in my coffin being eaten by worms.

Share this post: