Paring A Life

The thing about moving is that it forces you to take a look at all the crap you've accumulated over the years. I have learned several things about myself recently, none of which are particularly good.

First, I am quite possibly the cheesiest person on the planet when it comes to Christmas decorations. I have TRUNKS full seasonal corniness. If the knitted and stuffed snowmen with "2003" or "2005" embroidered across their chests weren't bad enough, there is the Harley riding Santa, which belts out the well know Christmas carol, "Born to be Wild". I don't own one of those creepy, life size, animatron Santas but only because it frightened the children. However, I am turning over a new leaf. From now on, I vow to make our holidays Martha Stewart tasteful with themed Christmas trees and fresh baked shortbread. I will no longer use fake icicles, cotton batten for snow or anything that sings, bobs or gyrates. Amen.

Second, my closet seems to be a metaphor for my life. I have no less than four different sizes hanging in there, each of which represents a distinct mindset. My skinny jeans, when paired with a snug tee tell the world that I am sassy, determined to stay young forever and just the slightest bit obsessed about what goes in my mouth. My everyday jeans are a size larger. They are worn with comfortable shoes and fitted shirts. They say, "I'm balanced and at peace and yes, I'd love a glass of wine". My fat jeans have strategically placed pockets to minimize the appearance of my arse. They contain abnormal amounts of spandex and are worn with loose tops designed to hide the muffin top. They scream, "Fuck off. I'm full. Now, get me a plate of nachos. And a treadmill." Finally, in the deepest recess of my closet, is a single pair of maternity jeans that I wore long after giving birth to Olivia. They were usually paired with an ill fitting, stained mu mu of some sort and they whispered, "Save me from myself. I am miserable."

In any case, everything goes but the items that fit RIGHT NOW. I am positively giddy with the decision in spite of the fact that I will be left with exactly two pairs of jeans, two black pants, four shirts and a bra that comes with instructions for use.

Finally, I have to admit that I have ostrich-head-buried-in-the-sand syndrome. I have been forced to actually look at the contents of the junk drawers that I have stashed around the house and it ain't pretty. I have a compulsive need to save every slip of paper from every financial transaction that I have ever completed because God forbid tax time come and we haven't got A RECEIPT FOR A QUALIFIED TAX DEDUCTION. Except that I never store the papers in the same place or file them with any regularity. Hence, on several days out of the year (usually after the acquisition of a speeding ticket or some such), I can be heard bellowing about the insurance cards and where the hell are they and I could have sworn that I put them RIGHT HERE IN THIS DRAWER!

I am hard pressed to throw out things like birthday candles that have been lit a single time or extra vacuum cleaner belts for a machine that my ex got in the divorce. As a result, there are no less than five drawers in the house that are crammed full of VERY IMPORTANT SHIT. As discussed before, being within ten feet of my file cabinet causes me to hyperventilate. But I will be a prisoner no more. I vow to sort through every bit of it and I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that the mere thought of taking on this task makes my gorge rise. But it's okay because after it is all over and I have pruned and organized my life, I'm going to reward myself by getting the fat sucked out of my ass so that I can once again fit into my skinny jeans.

I'm kidding.

Maybe.