Is it clean? Does it matter?
So, I'm living at home with my parents again. I get along well with my parents, and the rent is free. The hard thing about moving home, though, is that the stuff I have been living with at college has come home with me to live with everything I left at home. I am a pack rat. I have a hard time getting rid of things that have even the slightest emotional attachment. I have toys from childhood, Lire from my trip to Rome back in 2000, costumes from Halloweens long past and other things that serve no greater purpose than to take up space. I have resolved time and time again to reduce the clutter, but every time I try, I find myself just organizing it in new piles of relative importance. My new resolution is to pile it up, take a picture to preserve the memory, and donate what's salvageable or toss what's beyond hope.
Because of the massive piles of stuff, I have little room to store my clothing. The problem is complicated by my lack of desire to hang or fold my clothes. They usually congregate in an informal pile on my desk for a few days until their pleading looks guilt me into putting them in cozy drawers or hanging them with compatriots in the closet. For those few days, they sometimes try to keep their loneliness at bay by visiting with my dirty clothes. Why are my dirty clothes not snug in the hamper, you may ask? Well, after an endless day in the office, I sometimes just toss my clothes in the vicinity of the hamper and flee the scene in my pajamas. Being so reckless with my cotton-blend friends sometimes leads to problems.
This morning, I rushed around the house quickly dressing and flattening my hair. I grabbed a shirt on the boundary of the clean/dirty encampments, inspected it quickly, found it to be presentable and hurried to get to work on time. Once I was out in the daylight, I saw a small stain on the collar that had been able to disguise itself on the black top while in the dim light of my room. Then I had the choice: do I run back in to find a top I can determine without a doubt is clean, or do I just head to work. I decide that with the lack of time breathing down my collar, I should just hope that the artificial light of the office would help keep my secret. In conclusion, I've decided that as long as no one else can tell that it's not clean, it's clean to them.
Because of the massive piles of stuff, I have little room to store my clothing. The problem is complicated by my lack of desire to hang or fold my clothes. They usually congregate in an informal pile on my desk for a few days until their pleading looks guilt me into putting them in cozy drawers or hanging them with compatriots in the closet. For those few days, they sometimes try to keep their loneliness at bay by visiting with my dirty clothes. Why are my dirty clothes not snug in the hamper, you may ask? Well, after an endless day in the office, I sometimes just toss my clothes in the vicinity of the hamper and flee the scene in my pajamas. Being so reckless with my cotton-blend friends sometimes leads to problems.
This morning, I rushed around the house quickly dressing and flattening my hair. I grabbed a shirt on the boundary of the clean/dirty encampments, inspected it quickly, found it to be presentable and hurried to get to work on time. Once I was out in the daylight, I saw a small stain on the collar that had been able to disguise itself on the black top while in the dim light of my room. Then I had the choice: do I run back in to find a top I can determine without a doubt is clean, or do I just head to work. I decide that with the lack of time breathing down my collar, I should just hope that the artificial light of the office would help keep my secret. In conclusion, I've decided that as long as no one else can tell that it's not clean, it's clean to them.
posted by Sylvia at 10:00 AM
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