Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
It’s something I think about. Something I even plan to do. But somehow, other things–life–always seem to get in the way, and simplifying gets put off until. . . .someday. . . .when I have time.
When we remodeled the kitchen, I did get rid of a lot of stuff I hadn’t used since we moved in 20+ years ago. So hard to decide to dispose of things I used to use a lot, but since the kids are all grown and gone, and I developed Type II diabetes, I just don’t bake any more. Mind you, I didn’t get rid of the basics, because there are still holidays and special events when I want to bake a pie or make a cake. But it’s rare. Some of my things moved to higher shelves in the new kitchen because I don’t use them, but just couldn’t throw them out. Cookie cutters, little jello molds–things that hold sentimental value for me but that I’m not likely to use again. My kids used to love helping me cut out the Christmas cookies. Some things are just hard to part with.
Clothes. That’s my biggest problem. I have about four different sizes all together, and I keep hoping, wishing, that when I bring up the warm season clothing from the basement, I’ll be able to give away the biggest size and use the next size down. Sigh. Maybe this spring. I have dropped a few pounds while I’ve been sick. The trick is going to be keeping them off if/when my health ever returns.
Then there’s our filing cabinet. That one’s not my fault. DH tends to throw things in a file folder and promptly forget about them, but when I suggest we need to clear things out, he gets all possessive. And we just won’t talk about the computer desk, which is my fault. Mostly.
You know, I remember my mom’s hoarding tendencies, and always chalked them up to the fact that Depression-era people did tend to hold on to things. All sorts of things, like every letter she ever received. She never looked at them, mind you, but she simply couldn’t stand to throw them out.
To my own dismay, I’m finding that I have the same instincts. Yikes. I keep thinking about the mess we’re leaving for our kids, and I really don’t want to do that. Terry’s hoard is far worse than mine. Tools, buckets of various metals, wires, multiple tool chests, all full. Jars of screws, nuts, bolts, and washers. Bins of –I don’t know–just STUFF. Our garage, the attic, his part of the basement, our shed, a truck body, another sort of shed. All crammed full.
Oy. It makes me tired just thinking about clearing all that out.
We need to get started.