So you know how there’s something you’ve just gotta do, and you really don’t feel like doing it because you know once you start doing it it’s going to take over your entire life and turn your day (or a series of days) into utter crap? And so it just sits there getting less and less done?
Yeah. You know exactly what I’m talking about.
And do you know how long it took me to do this project–in this case, going through my two shirt drawers and two pants drawers and getting rid of all the stuff I never wear–once I bit the proverbial bullet and got started?
Yeah. About fifteen minutes on the shirt drawers and another fifteen on the pants drawers.
And then I rounded it out by spending ten minutes hanging up all the skirts and dresses and shrugs that go in my closet but that I’d been piling on top of my dresser instead because pulling out hangers and putting them away just sounded so, you know, onerous. And I got to watch "Mission: Organization" the whole time, which is a total guilty pleasure because Jim violently dislikes that show. (I think the hostess is the cutest thing ever. I could just bite her.)
And then I picked up all the dirty socks and semi-dirty jeans from my bedroom floor, which naturally led to cleaning up the roughly eighty-eleven pounds of books and magazines that had accumulated next to my bed. Not on the two (2) bookcases that are next to my bed; no, these were crammed into a magazine file and/or just kinda standing there in two edge-of-collapse knee-high stacks. And threw away a whole garbagebagful and sorted the rest. And then had to declutter and sort out the bookshelf in my studio so I’d have a place to put all the tangentially work-related books and magazines.
So, just like I knew it would, Project Tidydrawers ended up devouring my day. But, um, now I can actually walk around to my side of the bed and get into it like a normal human being instead of crawling in from the foot.
(I feel it necessary to add, for those of you who have never been to my house, that the rest of my house is generally quite a bit cleaner and neater than my bedroom. Can I get a witness to back me up here? Honestly–I don’t live in utter filth, and there are never dishes of greater than 24 hours’ vintage steeping in my room. And they’re all on Jim’s side of the bed, anyway.)
(Also: know what’s cute? A five-year-old sorting out a two-foot stack of magazines, muttering "Rubber Stamper. Archaeology. Renaissance. Archaeology. Another Renaissance." to himself.)