I don’t spend ridiculous amounts of time in lavish hotels just to catch a break from life. I don’t wear furs or flaunt my Patek chronometer (I don’t own one.) I don’t use fancy phrases and blow cigarette smoke in the butlers’ faces as I sashay in my spiffy high-heels. But what must stupefy the staff is my cluttering aptitude.
Everyone that knows me knows I am a cluttering aficionada. I take it to the next level. Piles spontaneously accumulate at the mention of my name. The chambermaids must gasp and beat their breasts, saying, “How could this be? She was only here one night!”
I learned of this moral weakness the first day I owned a home. Before this, it was my mother’s problem. It clearly did not bother her because she never chased me with an ax for it. That said, it bothers me tremendously. It is a purulent, gaping wound in my character. I have fought it; sincerely resolved never to lay any item on any flat surface again – ever; been repeatedly hypnotized for it; purchased organizational books and even the specific baskets they recommended; attended AND taught weekend-long seminars on it; rebuked and cast out the demon of cluttering! And for what?!
First, in my defense, let it be known that at least 40% of my piles consist of items that do not belong to me. People who call themselves my friends come to my home with their household items and leave them here. They probably then gather to discuss how to lure me to a posh recovery center in Beverly Hills.
So this year, I am making my first new year’s resolution in a decade. I am going to embrace my cluttering ways! I will own them and proudly display all labels that go with them. I am everything clutter – seeming chaos and dreadful disarray are an obvious sign of my mental state of mayhem. That is me; sweating bullets as I frantically seek that one sheet of paper that was right here.
Along with that is a cessation of dreams of the high life in profligate hotels. I will save my money and stay home to revel in my piles. I will titter and cackle in celebration of them. No more furs, no more Patek. No more nasty cigarette smoke in people’s faces. No more devastated chambermaids in counseling or having to take their own lavish vacations to recover from my doings. Come to me clutter, mama awaits!