Hoarders of the world unite

I have been accused, falsely if I may say so, of being a serial hoarder, but, not to leave out another pack rat in our “rat pack,” lets not forget the lady of the house herself.

There is an unusually large cupboard, that was originally mine until my stuff was relegated to the chest of drawers, that is bursting at the seams.  Amidst her childhood stuffed elephant set and size AA bra collection and prep school uniform collection neatly tucked away, you will find an expanse full of clothing.  Some of them are even packed away inside of a trash can!  (No I kid you not) Are the powers that be sending us a message about this stuff?  I thought I had made a breakthrough, but alas, even the bin was stored in the cupboard.

Sweetheart, take the hint!

They’re not winter clothes held there in the summer or summer clothes held there in the winter.  No….. it’s more like clothing of when my wife’s shapely figure had curves instead of cliffs.  Why are they here?  Because every woman has a delusion that someday she will get back to her “pre-baby weight” and fit back into that size 2 dress.

“Honey, that’s back in the day when you had more men interested in you than you could shake a stick at’ I mumble, and duck!

“They are nice dresses she says.  They will perhaps be passed on to my thin daughter or granddaughter”.  “If the moths don’t get to them first!.” (mumble and duck)

When my girl is a teen I won’t have to worry about her going on dates because the boys won’t come around.  They’ll be afraid of her unsightly partially devoured wardrobe.

My wife had a brilliant figure until children and gravity forced it to head south. That’s not why I fell in love with her but it did play a part (I’m sucking up again in case she didn’t like the bodily “cliff” remark 8 sentences ago).  She was so tiny and practically invisible.  There was no talk of cleaning back then.  She, like most wives who’ve been married for some time, needs her fantasies.  And if I keep writing about this I’m sure that all of my “fun time” with her will be made up of only “fantasy.”

Next there is the attack of my things usually most of which have been exiled to the poor box. “It’s outta the way so what’s the problem?” The boss attacks those vitally useful, precious items of mine, like the old time medicine chest which hangs on the wall.  It’s the kind with the two blinding fluorescent (sun like) side lights.  It doesn’t light, mind you, so no shades or radiation tests are needed.   “It is the only mirror in the house that works” I say as if such nonsensical statements will make a difference to a cleaning czar bent on a dust busting spastic mission.   That kind of humor seems to prod her the other way.  The cabinet which I picked up at a flea market 35 years ago I got for a song. It’s not even hooked up to the electricity in our home.  But it houses my rare rugby ticket memorabilia collection that I’ve had since my teen angst years.

I know where this attachment disorder comes from: family.  It’s in our lineage.  I have an aunt who has saved virtually everything she has ever purchased or been given.  If you want her to find something in particular you best put in your request a few weeks ahead of time.  She needs a better filing system.  She operates on the same plan my daughter has used all of her life.  The wife’s family isn’t fooling me either.

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