As far as addictions go, mine isn’t so bad.
While some people are addicted to booze or nicotine or gambling or porn, my nagging need is for organization. Which, let’s face it, simply makes me a giant nerd. Organization addicts aren’t the stuff of poignant movies about addiction or riveting TLC shows or even intriguing happy hour conversation.
Yet, despite years of intensive therapy to embrace the concept of clutter, my love for all things neat and tidy endures.
So when the movers finally arrived at our apartment, bearing more than 100 boxes, it was like dozens of glorious presents wrapped in ugly mud-brown cardboard with bows made of packing tape.
My endorphins shot through the roof. It was an organizational freak’s dream: a clean palette and the paint of beautiful boxes filled with all our stuffs with which to splash across a new home. It’s a rare gem of an opportunity, a chance to start from scratch and organize from the ground up!
Each new box sliced open at the belly with a knife and gutted of its contents was like a hit of organizational crack. Unpacking each burgeoning box filled with dishes or office supplies or clothes I’m never going to wear or my postage stamp collection (Psshh, did I say postage stamp collection? I mean, umm, super cool ambiguous items.) presented a renewed rush.
For the past week, I have filled my days with stuffing memorabilia (high school diploma, anyone?) into hulking plastic bins, filing photos into tidy stacks, folding linens into perfect squares. And, of course, I’ve been using any organizer’s favorite tool o’ the trade with the utmost liberty: the basket. Ah, beautiful twine of wicker or straw or other unrecognizable material, you truly are a masterpiece with your lovely woven exterior and your irreplaceable functionality.
I wouldn’t say that I have a problem exactly. Just because I am the proud owner of about 47 baskets of every size, shape and color imaginable, I wouldn’t call that a problem. Nope, no problem here.
The Frozen Southerner 