Clean

This weekend I am cleaning out the closet in my bedroom. I organize that closet once a year or so, and swear that I'll never let it get out-of-control again, and then it does get out-of-control. But this time is different.

I am throwing stuff away -- throwing away clothes that should have been tossed years & years ago. I have a pile of clothes to donate, and three trash bags (so far) full of clothes that are destined for a landfill.

I'm getting rid of clothes that are old (sweaters with frayed sleeves, pilly cordoroy, stretched collars) and also clothes that just aren't comfy enough for me anymore -- anything scritchy scratchy, no matter how pretty or flattering, must go.

I'm also getting rid of almost all of my sentimental items: the t-shirt I wore at 18, the little denim skirt that's (literally) 10 digits smaller than what I'd buy now (and I thought I was fat when I wore it). I'm too old, I have too much cancer in my bones, to be weighed down with cotton t-shirt memories.

Eric asked me to keep my leather jacket. He gave it to me on our first Christmas together, and I wore & wore & wore it. I'll keep it. There'll be plenty of room now that I only have clothes that I actually wear.

Going through & getting rid of my stuff will be a monumental task for Eric when I'm gone -- assuming that I die first, which is certainly the trend. I don't want it to be harder than it needs to be.

Who wants my report cards from elementary school, or the birthday card my grandparents gave me when I was eight? It's unlikely that my children would even want those things, had I had 'em. But I didn't have 'em. Eric and I had each other, instead... the smallest possible family unit, and it's been good. Goodgoodgood.

I'd better get back to work.