I am cleaning house. And I mean really cleaning house — overturning closets and spilling out all the drawers, picking my way (albeit very slowly) through six years’ worth of accumulated Stuff that I never really needed in the first place.
One of the key words for my new life: streamlined.
I remember once when the ex and I were hosting a dinner party, and I overheard some conversation in the kitchen. It was very easy for me to throw a dinner party: I didn’t have to do anything except show up in time to start answering the door. As the caterer busied herself at the stovetop, the servers were exchanging observations about “rich people”: “…if something breaks, they just go out and buy a new one,” one server remarked. “They don’t even bother to get it fixed.”
And goddammit, he was absolutely right. (Fix? What is this thing called fixing?)
But no more. And it’s not even a moral thing — I would never claim to be quite that evolved — about how disgusting it is to be so excessive and wasteful in times such as these.
No, I am a creature who is motivated by the principles of an aesthetic.
I want clean, sweeping surfaces and negative space. I want gleaming floors and lamplight and Zen-like calm. And I don’t want it to be the faux-Zen kind, where the Stuff is just tossed behind doors, in closets and drawers, a secret black hole of Mess swallowing up yet another hapless iPod or digital camera.
So in the spirit of that, I have done the first necessary thing.
I have declared war on clutter.
Except then I took a very very long coffee break, and now the clutter just kind of sits around and mocks me.
I will vanquish you, clutter. Don’t get cocky.
Your day has come.