Cleaning the Closet of Catastrophe: A Date With Disaster

I am organizing my room. Finally.

For weeks I've been avoiding eye contact with my fourteen year old sister just because I'm ashamed that I'm the one who thought I was a neat freak but can't seem to control my junk piles.

But now, I've finally dived into the Closet of Catastrophe. I spent yesterday morning and part of this morning exploring the Harrowing Hanging Rack, then plunged into a Rubbermaid tub of Lamentable Lingering Letters. Tomorrow, the Shelves from Sheol and Daunting Desk of Doom. And finally, if I keep my courage, the Banal Bookshelf.

I love that bookshelf. And I love the books in it. Every last little one of them. Like children. So the Banal part is picking which ones stay and which ones go to Berea with me, where I can almost guarantee there will be no space for them, and my room mate will hate me forever and ever Amen.

To steel myself, I continually quote Laurie from Little Women:

"Jo, I won't be taking all of Dickens to college with me..."

Fortunately, I've not yet acquired a taste for Dickens. A few less tomes to agonize over.

Today it was the letters I had to work with. Ever since I concluded that at least part of my life will probably be spent moving to and fro over the globe, I figured I should forget collecting excessive amounts of anything.

Haven't convinced myself of this entirely regarding objects made of paper. And though I'm more than willing to rid myself of some of the ponderous proof of correspondence from the past fourteen+ years of my short life, the process feels a little like trying to get rid of the toilet paper after having your yard rolled.

Wow. That really makes it sound like I don't appreciate all those letters. But that's not what I mean. In fact, the reason it's so hard to toss them is that I feel like I'm betraying my friends by throwing away their letters.

So if you're one of the friends who wrote me letters, and you feel betrayed, sorry. Of course, I still have all the really pretty ones and the ones that still move me when I read them. Just not the whole rubbermaid tub-ful.

Due to the time consuming nature of having to open every card and letter to skim it before making the fateful decision, the tub of Lamentable Lingering Letters may have to be finished another year.