It’s one of those life passages. You get to an certain age, look around, and realize, “Holy shit, I’ve got a lot of shit.”
The accumulation is insidious. Books, media, “what-nots,” as my grandmother called bric a brac, half empty paint cans, tools, small appliances, the detritus of a consumer society. After just a few years there is a small mountain of stuff, and the more square footage you occupy, the more of it there is. It’s an emotional tangle, a frustrating mix of items “that must have a value to someone,” environmental responsibility, and your personal history of childhood, first loves, lost loves, achievements, souvenirs of good times, good friends, children, and acknowledgements that your time here has meant something.
Whew! That’s a lot to sort. No wonder we avoid it until we die. Rest assured, whomever is left behind will curse you for leaving the mess. Not only is it annoying, paying someone to take on the overwhelming task is expensive.
Basements are accomplices in the mayhem. A large, infrequently used space that doesn’t have to be kept tidy, in case people wander through and question your hoarding tendencies and sanity. All can be hidden by a latched door, your reputation as a reasonable person intact. Cleaning the basement tops the I’ll Get Around to It list. That list you see, sigh, and then binge on Netflix.
If you love your children, follow the advice you drummed into them: Clean your room. I’m striving to leave my daughter only a messenger bag of negotiable securities. READ MORE