High Heels & Handbags

I like to keep stuff. Some people might classify that as being a “pack rat,” but I prefer not to use that term, as it contains the word rat. I have stacks of fashion magazines waiting to be cataloged, newspapers waiting to be read, scrapbook supplies and pages waiting to be completed . . .well, you get the idea. I have moved 4 times as an adult, not counting back and forth to college, and each time this pile of stuff was hauled along with me.

I have 3 excuses, none of which I should use, but I do. The first is, “I have so much stuff because I have too many interests.” I sew, paint, scrapbook, knit (badly) draw. . .the list goes on, but I’ll stop there. And with each of these hobbies lies bolts of fabric, boxes of paint, drawers and drawers of paper and glue and markers and buttons, ribbons, zippers, and spools of thread waiting to be used on that future project.

Excuse number two is not so much an excuse as a fact. I am super sentimental. I have notes passed from friend to friend in junior high, the first flowers I ever got from a guy, my prom dress, the sweater that I wore to meet a boyfriend’s parents in, movie ticket stubs, blah blah blah.

The third excuse really feeds the other 2, “I just don’t have time to organize it.” Which is partially true. The 2 places that I have lived most recently have had plenty of storage and the last one had a lovely large basement—so into Rubbermaid totes it all went. I should have spent more time sorting through those bins of high school English papers, or condensing and organizing my fabric, but I was young (amazing what a difference 4 years or so makes, 28 is soooo not 32) and my priorities were spending time with my then boyfriend, girls nights out with the gang from work, and traveling to spend time with friends who lived out of town. So it was work and play, and I had fun, but those darn boxes in the basement seemed to have multiplied by the time I started to pack up to move here.

But here I am, at my final stop. I may move houses, but I’m in this community for the next 30 years at least, so it’s time to start picking away at that huge pile. I am in the midst of a huge home remodeling project, and as a result, the dining room table and the couch are currently sharing a space. If I thought things were a mess before. . . . But you’ve got to make a mess before you get to a place of calm. Tear it down to build it up, and gosh darn it, there is a whole lot of demolition needed before I can get onto the cover of a design magazine.

This realization was further enforced last night, as I dealt with the piles and piles of laundry. As I folded a pair of pajamas that was sooooo past their prime, I wondered why the heck they hadn’t hit the “rag bag” yet. I have roughly 3 billion pairs of perfectly fine pjs, yet I still have these old ratty ones “just in case?” Now, granted, it was nice to have them waiting for me in the pajama closet (yup, you heard right, pajama closet) while the others were living on Clothes Mountain, waiting to visit Mr. Washing Machine down at base camp, but seriously. Time. To. Go. The same goes for the kitchen towels that are stained and don’t really match the kitchen, and the track pants that are falling apart. Now, no one ever sees these items, I don’t go for a walk in holey pants or put out old kitchen towels when I have company, but still, why are they here?!

Time to let some of these things go. Seriously. That old robe that I have had since college with the hair dye stains from when I thought it was a good idea to be brunette for 4 years—gone. That pile of mismatched socks that, let’s be honest, are never going to get matched—rag bag. And those darn pajamas? Well, I took a scissor to them last night and used the rags to clean the bathroom. I have a long road of garbage bags in my near future, but I already feel less cluttered and more centered. And with that huge pile of laundry gone, I may even have room to do a little yoga. Namaste.

Suzanne Rian is a fashionista and the owner/operator of Moxie boutique in the Reed Building on First Avenue in Hibbing.