I thought to myself on Tuesday last week. I was sitting on the floor surrounded by bags of clothes. The boys were using the clothes as slides. There was a double bed mattress on the landing and so many black sacks of clothes for charity shops that I couldn’t get from the door in my office to the window.
I started off last week with a goal of cleaning up the house. Then I realised that I couldn’t get away with a quick lick of a duster, swish of the vacuum cleaner and a spritz of lemon oil. Once I began to make a dent in the washbasket I discovered that I had nowhere to put my clean clothes. I do have plenty of storage space upstairs, just it was all full.
Denial is a terrible thing.
Hanging up in the wardrobe were my lovely work suits that I had hung in the hopes that I’d use them again some day. Shoes and boots that I’ve not worn in years, nevermind months. There were even some maternity clothes that I hadn’t disposed of. So I pulled all the clothes out and started to get my cupboards in order.
It has been a little like one of my oft-mentioned stocktakes, except for the rest of the house. I now realise that we had too much stuff. We have been drowning under stuff.
You can only wear 1 pair of shoes at any one time.
I felt a huge pang of regret for donating my work suits to charity, along with some barely worn shoes and coats. Now, a few days on, all I feel is lighter in my heart for being able to see what’s hanging in the wardrobe and a washbasket that is getting emptier as each day passes.
What the heck am I doing?