I've been cleaning out my closet and I don't say that lightly. I'm on my third day. I haven't cleaned out my closet since 1999. Sure, I've done some cursory straightening. But really cleaned? Really delved into its chasms? That, I have not.
My closet has become for me my sanctum of doom. It's the shadow of hypocrisy that screams back at me every time I tell the kids, "CLEAN UP YOUR ROOM!" But it's not my fault. Really.
My closet, which unbeknownst to me may have been featured on an episode of "Hoarders", is the result of the lack of general storage in our house. Anything without a home ends up in my spacious walk-in sanctuary. Thirteen years of tax returns. All of the pre-digital pictures I have ever taken (a large collection, as you might imagine.) Seven years of ballet costumes. Stacks of Christmas cards. Bolts of fabric. Empty scrapbooks. All of these items have somehow ended up in a space which was meant to simply hold some garments.
In an attempt to take back this room of luxury which is rightfully mine, I have decided that enough is enough. Although the cost will be high, I will take back this space, one box, one stack at a time. Baby steps. Baby steps.
Take the picture above, for example. Does anyone know what that is? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
Anna: Is it some really old kind of computer?
Arielle: Is it a laminator?No, my loves. That is called an electric typewriter. I used to use it. A lot.
I found this size eight pair of ice skates on the top shelf. I used to wear a size 8. I used to wear a size 8 before giving birth to my first child. Somewhere in my ninth month of pregnancy, however, my feet swelled to a size 10. Apparently, they've never fully deflated.
I found a sheet of 32 cent stamps. They're still good, you know.
I found this goofy picture of my husband. Hey honey, MC Hammer called. He wants his Zubaz back!
I found this really cute dress that I almost finished for one of my girls. It's only missing a hem. I think it's a size 3. Anyone? Anyone?
In the event that you never hear from me again, it could only mean that the rope I tied to my waist broke and they couldn't pull me out of the closet. Or perhaps the trail of breadcrumbs I left behind got eaten by the dog. In any case, wish me luck. I'm not finished yet!