When I was married I hired a professional organizer to create a system for me. Clutter was defeated and organization was the keyword of the day. I was that paragon of American advertising, the super woman who was in law school, worked part-time, drove my husband to and from work, juggled an internship a semester into my last 2 years of school, got drafted (kicking and screaming) to write a learned paper for a school publication (yes, my GPA went down that semester), spent time with my grandkids (yes, I was that old when I went to law school – I am Boomer, hear me roar), mentored junior classmen on how to write essays, and managed to have a neat, clean abode.
Three years after the divorce I rent a room. The debris of my deceased long-term marriage reside in the attic, basement, a friend’s garage, and my bedroom – except for the inability to understand what went wrong, which still zings around my brain. My ability to keep an area clean seems to have vanished with the marriage and I just don’t get it – either of them, actually.
I am a struggling “young” lawyer trying to survive and dealing with an ocean of clutter, the debris of a shipwreck of life. I have a hunch the organizer I once hired would tell me I have too much stuff for too little space. Do tell? But what do I do with it?
About a week ago I spent hours slogging through the room, getting rid of bags of stuff and setting my sights on a goal of a totally neat and clean room. Yeah, right. I’m sitting here in bed, with piles of clean clothes heaped up on the bed and wondering… when do I get my clean place back? I guess it is when I get my butt out of bed and do something about it. Ya think?
What is the song of the day (ala Zoe Baxter)? Clutter.