My grandmother used to call it “getting or-gin-ized,” where /gin/ is the same as the alcoholic beverage.
Right on the tails of the Amazing Wardrobe Reconstruction, I seem to be feeling this sudden flare-up of Virgoan Organization Syndrome, which is quite peculiar. It only happens about every two or three years, and it’s quite terrifying; there appears to be no cure but to ride it out. Not saying I want to continue life with stacks of papers and unopened envelopes around me, losing things on a regular basis and always feeling like I’m running late for something even if I’m twenty minutes early (at which point I slow down because I have the time…and then end up late anyway).
I was trying to find a portfolio or padfolio or something that would act as a catch-all, and yet be professional enough for the workplace: something big enough to hold an 8×11 legal pad (I prefer the yellow, easier on the eyes), perhaps a weekly calendar, and several large pockets for the various documents I carry back and forth to meetings — even if half the time I ignore all but one or two. Still, better to have them in something, rather than a stack that threatens to go all over the place. And, too, I wanted a place to store my own stuff, which meant giving thought to what I keep in a purse of any sort: cash, maybe six or seven cards of various types plus ID, cellphone, pen, sunglasses, and sometimes the iPod if I don’t want to leave it in the car for some reason.
This meant I spent quite a lot of time on the computer over the weekend, and even yesterday and today, trying to track down something that would suffice.
[Aside: the pinnacle came this evening at the local office supply store. I had narrowed it down to three portfolios, all of which had redeeming qualities... until I realized one quite significant drawback. Each had a notepad on the right, three-ring-binder option in the middle, and pockets on the left, including a sideways pocket that could expand to hold more, like iPod and cellphone and sunglasses. Yay. Except... the portolio with the pocket opening towards the zipper edge (when the book lies flat) had a handle along the binding, behind the three-ring mechanism. Yes. This means, as I realized, that if you shove stuff into the expandable pocket, flip the thing closed, and zip it up, then now you're carrying the portfolio with that expandable pocket with its mouth facing down.
In sum: everything will fall out into the belly of the portfolio and potentially be all over the place when you open it the next time. The other two? No handle, but with their interior pockets facing towards the three-rings, I was like, okay, this works... until I realized that when you zip up the portfolio, the outside slip-pockets are by the zipper, not the binder-end, which means, again, the interior pocket's mouth is... facing down. Who the hell designs these things? I told CP when I got home that it felt like someone had done the outside, and someone else the inside, and they'd never considered what it'd mean to put the two together. Twits! The world is full of twits!]
During this lengthy search, one link leads to another, and suddenly I’m on a page for the National Organization for Chronic Disorganization (or something like that) which in and of itself is just the most hysterical NFP name I’ve ever seen, but… face it, I am chronically disorganized. Hrm. Sounds promising except: the majority of sites kept asking in extra-large hot pink font or something equally horrenous and eye-catching: “Do you avoid having guests over?” and “Have you not seen your bathroom counter in more than six months?” and “When was the last time your sink was clean?” and “Is there no clear path from your front door to your sofa?”
I’m thinking: if any of those described my house, CP would’ve moved out six years ago. Yes, I’m disorganized, and yes, my areas are bastions of piles and clutter and things that don’t really have a home but need one (or need to be sorted and tossed or a home created), and yes, I can slack horribly on repetitive chores like dishes or vacuuming, but by no stretch do I like, nor tolerate, a filthy house. I certainly would never allow my entire bathroom countertop to be utterly filthy and covered with empty shampoo bottles and old razors and dried toothpaste and soap-crusted plates and a few extra drinking glasses with the tea gone solid and empty toilet paper rolls. I know what the trash is, really: when something is empty, used, or broken, it goes in the trash. That’s not my problem, nor is dirt: I may be unable to see dirt on a microscopic level, but I’m sure as hell able to see it on a macroscopic one. I just clutter.
(Clothes piled up on the floor beside my bed? That’s different. No one walks there but me, and if I do trip, at least they’ll cushion my landing. Nyah.)
It comes down to, underneath it all, that I want to have less stuff. I was raised military; weight limits meant we cleaned out every two or three years, yard sale from hell, there went my childhood toys and red wagon and dress-up clothes. Then my father retired and my parents continued to amass just as they had before… but lacking military-required moves in our future, by the time they divorced, the house was crammed to the brim.
The true head-desk is that while helping my dad pack and move out of that massive stuff-filled house, for every six bags I took to the curb or to Goodwill (often while fighting off either my father or sister with the other hand), I probably brought home one. Guh! I was the only one in a stable household at the time; the rest of the family was in transition.
So: stuff. I have a lot of it (in my opinion), mostly of the kind I’m sedimentally required by some unspoken, guilt-enforced law to keep. And there’s no apparent escape until someone (like, hopefully my sister) comes along and says she has a house and can take it. I already gave her the dressing table, piano bench, Turkish coffee table, china set, crystal glasses, anything she’d ever eyeballed. Let her put it in storage, pay for the storage; it meant I didn’t have to pack it, move it, deal with it, pamper it, clean it, dust it, worry about it.
I actually have no problem donating stuff: in fact, a huge box of clothes or household stuff on its way to Goodwill is a huge thrill. No, wait, collecting a box of Things To Leave This House is the hugest thrill of any house-related activity. I get a total rush from it. (I never said I wasn’t a virgo on some fundamental level.) The problem is that if it’s to be tossed as trash, I have a harder time; stuff going into a landfill bugs me. It feels like I’m being wasteful, somehow.
And what really bugs me is that even when I take a load to Goodwill on a monthly basis (like I used to do back in VA), there’s still always so much stuff, still, when I’m done. It’s what remains that’s the issue: how do I organize what’s left? I think the benefit of the past few days has been to remind me that, honestly, on some levels we have far less stuff, in general, than most folks. Truth, I’m remarkably minimalist in much of my life, and while I might not be excessively cluttery compared to some, by my own standards, I am. And since I’m the one’s gotta live with me…
Tagged: office, organization, storage