Several years ago George Carlin did a bit about stuff. I didn’t really appreciate the humor at the time, but for some reason his point stuck with me. Our houses are merely a place to keep our stuff. We go through life accumulating more and more stuff. We work just so we can have stuff. And in the end, what does all that stuff mean? Did stuff make your life worth living?
I have too much stuff. I’m well aware of this. I have been trying for quite some time to get rid of excess stuff, but somehow stuff keeps finding its way into my home. ¡No más!
Purging is always difficult for me. What if I need this later? Oh, I can’t give this away, so and so gave it to me. It doesn’t take up that much space, I’ll just keep it for now. No excuses this time. I can’t keep all that excess stuff, because if it doesn’t fit in the van, I’ll have to pay to store it. And that’s just ridiculous—why would anyone pay hard-earned money just to have a place to keep their stuff? Who does that?
The photo above is the result of having sifted through about half of my clothing. That pile is about 2 feet high, and it contains clothes that no 32-year-old should wear. Case in point, the silver faux snakeskin skimpy top sitting at the top of the pile. I can’t believe I wore that in public. No wonder my mother worried about me so much. I didn’t think much of it at the time. If you’re a spritely 21-year-old going to a dance club in LA, you dress the part. Looking back, it’s a small miracle that I survived.
Some of my old clothes will be sold on Ebay, some of it will be donated, and some of it will be given to Jef’s nieces (NOT the skimpy clubwear). It’s dawning on me that instead of sifting through my closet looking for things to get rid of, maybe I’d better pick out the things I want to keep. I’d take a photo of my current closet and post that, but I actually have so much clothing that it’s embarrassing. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get a before photo of my shoe collection. Just call me Imelda.