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I just finished moving from 1,500
square feet to 950 square feet, and
let me just sum it all up for you in
three words.
I’m a survivor.
More specifically, a relationship-
survivor. I’m happy to announce
that I’m still engaged to a man
who had every reason to run-don’t-
walk during the last two months
of pawing through box after box
filled to the brim – okay more like
smashed jam-packed – with what
I’ve been schlepping around for the
last 47 years.
I affectionately call my belongings
“things” and “stuff.” My problem
began when I was young. Real
young. Say around five-ish. I
remember begging my mom not to
get rid of my priceless collectibles
with the strong argument of, “that’s
my stuff” or, “those are my things.”
Stuff like newspapers with my
articles in them from 12 years ago.
I had no idea newspapers – that
many – weighed so much either,
since I’ve always had help by
strong peeps, carrying my boxes
of stuff from one storage place to
another.
I reasoned that because those
articles were not on the Internet
back then, I needed to save them,
the entire newspaper too, not just
my 15” prose on page 7. But for
what? I was a crappy writer then.
Not that I’m Pulitzer-material
now – close though – I realized
that those clips were not going to
score me a cover story in the New
Yorker.
I found lies in those boxes too.
Neatly tucked away in box number
85, was my son’s green and yellow
crocheted baby blanky, the one I
had told him his dad and I “lost.”
He’s 20-years-old now, and when
I showed him his security blanket,
he was miffed. I couldn’t blame
him. White lies don’t hoard well.
My claws came out like
switchblades when my fiancé
questioned why I needed to save
15 remote controls, over 20 surge
protectors and make-up from the
80’s. I growled another strong
argument of … “back off or else.”
Thoughts of becoming rich
through EBay sales danced
through my head. So did thoughts
of strangling my fiancé with the 30
extension cords too. I mean, what
did he know? This is my life and
those are my things and stuff.
In the end, I made progress. I sold
about a quarter of my things and
stuff during three days of garage
sales with his mom’s help; I threw
Moving From Hoarder
to Not-so Hoarder
by Charleen Earley
a quarter of it away; donated a
quarter of it to Goodwill; and
ultimately kept the remaining
must-haves-or-I’ll-die stuff.
It felt good. It felt like a weight
was lifted. I learned about my
problem.
Two months and seven hoarder ep-
isodes later, I realized my prob-
lem was in letting go. First step,
realizing I have a problem. Second
step, finding very good reasons to
not let go. Third step, letting go.
Fourth step, hello shopping!
Charleen Earley is a freelance writer, humor
columnist, high school journalism teacher
and stand-up comedienne. Contact her at
charleenbearley@gmail.com.