Hoarders makes me sad. Don’t know it? It’s a reality show that goes inside the homes of messy people. They say it’s a real thing. Gathering stuff, until there are only trails through one’s home and rats in the kitchen, is the result of some sort of trauma.
I figure I must be ahead of the game as one woman says it’s the result of her husband’s death. When The Norwegian left us, I had many reactions. Piles of stuff making moving from room to room impossible didn’t make the list. Mine were more along the lines of, “What do you mean I have to downsize? I’m not at all interested in that.” No one listened. Pfft.
It makes me sad because it feels like exploiting the unstable. However, I do find myself, perched cross-legged on the couch stuffing my gullet with something sugary, cheesy or pizza-ish, getting all judgy; an emotion I don’t care for so much. So I generally steer clear.
Waiting for clothes to dry and writing inspiration to hit, there is Hoarders, on TV, just waiting for me to cast aspersions. Why don’t their kids step in before the house looks like a corn maze of crap? How do people become so lost that a rat in the bathroom ceases to be a priority? Why don’t the husbands ever clean up? No kidding–seen it a handful of times and each time there’s a husband who is not the hoarder, he’s just living with it.
“I can’t stop her from buying stuff.” Perhaps not. But, about three years ago, you could’ve taken a broom to that family room.
Judgement is a feeling I loathe. So I clean out my drawers. You know, making sure there are no rats, food wrappers, or plates with stuck on food buried in with the bras. Vowing ruthlessness, I throw away bunches of stuff since the drawers lead me to the closet and that turns to an examination of the shoe collection.
Consultation with the experts provides guidance. Those in the know say the things we should get rid of include buttons, old makeup, clothes that don’t fit, magazines, out of date food, pens that don’t work, chargers and cords for God knows what, single earrings unless your ear holes are in the odd numbers, old manuals, Tupperware sans lids and worn out towels. None of these items are on Hoarders but I toss with abandon.
Bags of crap and neat-as-a-pin drawers make me feel lighter, happier. I guess. It’s not like anyone knows but me. But there is something to being able to spy one’s collection of Nick and Nora Christmas jams and yoga pants all in a row. Bras find themselves, cup to cup, like a drawer at Victoria’s Secret. And there are no big sizes to make me feel bad.
Experts advise the key to upkeep includes making one’s bed every day, ensuring the windows are sparkling clean, latching onto good lighting, replacing old cabinet hardware, getting rid of exposed cords and adding greenery. I do screw in new lightbulbs that replicate daylight.
Now, as I sit cross legged on the couch, feeling all judgy, the kitchen is lit up like a runway and the cats place paws over their eyes. It would, however, be impossible not to spot a rat, so there’s that.
The Duchess Diaries 