Order Out of Disorder

Had some success this weekend in the Order vs. Disorder Department. I tackled Mount Sweaterest, as referred to in a recent post. I kept true to my word, pretty much, and tended to my side of the street, or mountain, in this case. What I mean is:

1. I disassembled the pile and laid it all out on the bed, to get an inventory.
2. My Spouse was working, so I could not rant or point fingers even if i wanted to. Besides, that would not be very Zen-lke now, would it?
3. Results: Approximately 78.9% of the articles of clothing were hers, not mine. No matter.
4. Part of the, um, problem is that the edifice no longer consisted of sweaters only: sweat pants, t-shirts, a sports bra or two, pajamas, and one pair of undies somehow crept onto this cloth column.
5. No matter.
6. I got into it, in a binge fashion. I took two bags of my stuff (including some very nice sweaters, a very warm and thick sweatshirt, pajamas, etc.) to the Rescue Mission. I threw out a bag of my clothes. It was time for them to go. Very purgative. No, i did not commit the suicidal act of throwing out any of her clothes.
7. In doing so, I freed up space in my bureau. I did not have to buy any new shelves after all. Very minimalist, just like the experts said.
8. Yes, the problem is me.
9. Very rewarding. What will be my next target?

I have no illusions, though. This is all part of my binge nature. On the same day, I did four of five loads of laundry, went shopping, walked the dog, did dashes, and took a brief nap.

I capped the day by attending a rather good rendition of "Hamlet" by the Syracuse Shakespeare Festival. Mark Allen Holt, playing the eponymous character, was especially good.

Never before had I viewed "Hamlet" as such a telling example of self-will run riot.

Oh, and I (and possibly a fellow in back of me) was the only person to chuckle at Glamourpuss's favorite dirty line, when Hamlet, lying in Ophelia's lap, saucily asks her if she thinks he was speaking of "country matters." (I probably would've ignored it, were it not for this fellow blogger's alert to it. We are all about haute couture here.)

A full day.

Chaos Theory: Hoard to Tears

Many of my favorite sweaters are buried. They groan under the weight of Mount Sweaterest, which is something like six feet wide and five feet high, and counting, and consists mostly of my spouse's 789 sweaters -- even after massive donations to charity over the years. (Hey! it's cold in these parts nine months of the year!) Mount Sweaterest occupies a significant portion of Syracuse's Tipperary Hill, as contained within our modest abode.

This weekend, I was tempted to exert a little energy and personal responsibility by going out and buying some plastic shelves or bins (certainly not a new bureau). You know, organize my life.

Then I found that my problem is me (per usual), not shelf space. Yup, as noted by the wellness (isn't that a fine word?) columnist of The New York Times,

"Excessive clutter and disorganization are often symptoms of a bigger health problem."

It goes on to say, "Attention deficit disorder, depression, chronic pain, and grief can prevent people from getting organized or lead to a buildup of clutter." (I inserted my own serial comma in that quotation. So sue me.) Bingo! I'll cop to three out of four of those qualifiers.

What to do?

I told wifey I was going to liberate drawer space from some of the bureaus her clothes occupy. That was met with, um, slight resistance.

Doesn't matter. My job is to de-clutter my own life, clean up my side of the street.

Didn't get too far on that this weekend.

But we did take down the Christmas tree. (I regally decree annually that we wait until Epiphany before de-foresting the living room.)

The falling pine needles refreshed the pine scent of the tree when it was freshly cut. An old memory instantly resurrected.

The space formerly occupied by the tree seems so vacant and secular and quotidian now.

Back to normal life. Whatever normal is.

Incidentally, I still find myself greeting people with "Happy New Year." How long is that permitted? I think I might stop soon; this might be the last week for that. Or maybe not. What else do we have to say until Valentine's Day (a depressing holiday for me ever since Barbara Wallace didn't give me a card in first grade) anyway? Yeah, I know. "If you see Kay. . . . off."