So the process of going through my things and getting rid of stuff has taken longer than I anticipated.
According to the book I’ve mentioned in past posts, you’re supposed to pretty much do it all in one fell swoop. Well, lady author…I have a job and episodes of The Walking Dead to watch, so that’s not going to happen.
I mean I could probably try to take some vacation days, but no, I fully intend to use my next block of vacation to sit on a beach and read anything that’s NOT Fifty Shades of Gray, er Grey, whichever.
Initially, I started with all my clothes and made some pretty good progress in pairing down the things I no longer cherished. I switched from the closet in my room, to one down the hall in the guest bedroom.
So, you want to know the best way to make your partner contemplate murdering you?
First, you decide you want to switch closets, and then you proceed to move your loved one’s stuff from one closet to another one, and then move all your crap into their old one.
Now, this was my fault. Marie Kondo advised against touching the other members of your family’s personal belongings, and just to focus on your own baggage. Well, I didn’t listen and I still regret that choice.
During the overhaul, I proceeded to get positively shitfaced and attempt to make order out of all the disorder of my closet. Of course, this meant making a decision that should have been between Jackson and myself, solely on my own.
It didn’t occur to me that part of cleaning out my closet was meant to bring peace to my life and alcohol rarely aids in this endeavor. But that’s a whole other can of stinkbugs I have been struggling with. It’s just unfortunate beer tends to make the most menial tasks seem way more fun than they are. I don’t mind laundry much when I’m three shits to the wind. (Yes I meant to say shits there).
Jackson came home from work to find me stumbling around, with some of his stuff hung up in his “new” closet, while most of his belongings were strewn all over the floor, hangers covering every square inch of the hallway.
Understandably, he was pretty furious, but in my drunken state, I was in the right and so he would just have to get the fuck out of my house if he didn’t like how things were going to be. I then proceeded to hulk my way through said hallway and break a bunch of plastic hangers.
Never mind, I had single handedly put his life in disarray by trying to organize mine. I basically took a crap on the idea of his ability to decide where his things should be. I rearranged his underwear drawer, moved his shirts, transported his firearms and left a bunch of other things on the floor. It was beyond disrespectful.
That’s the thing about love.
It’s super easy in the beginning, or at least it should be in my opinion. Anyone who says “it’s complicated”, when describing their relationship status should just go ahead and get sterilized now. It’s really not hard, either someone likes you and they show it, or they don’t, that simple. In the beginning, you get the feels from just looking at the person you’ve picked out to be miserable with in the future.
At the start of relationships, all your partner’s quirks are funny, and you actually enjoy picking their socks up off the floor because you’ll just end up having sex later anyways because that’s what you do when it’s new. Sex, lot’s of it, seems to temper any annoyance you have with constantly telling them where you’re going when you leave the room to take a piss.
Despite me being a raging bitch, hell bent on kicking him out of the house, he still slept in the same room with me after I passed out with a snotty nose and swollen eyes. I am still pretty proud I didn’t pee the bed that night.
Later he told me, while in bed, he thought about which items he was going to take with him when he moved out, the T.V. was definitely going with him.
The next morning, instead of packing, he asked me what he could do to help me feel better as he hugged me.
“You still love me,” I asked.
“I’ll always love you,” Jackson said and shrugged his shoulders matter-of-factly.
I shit you not, it wasn’t corny in the slightest. It was heartbreaking to hear, but it didn’t stay broken, in the same instant, he sewed the chambers back together, he reconnected the pulmonary artery to fill my lungs back up.
That was enough, I didn’t need him to actually clean the toilets or anything. I just needed to know he wanted to make me happy. There’s something completely satisfying yet terrifying about the fact that someone you love won’t leave, even after you’ve screamed brand new expletives at them.
I’ve promised not to move any more of his things, though I find this difficult.
Instead, I’ve moved onto going through my books.
Most of the novels I own were placed throughout the house on random shelves, upstairs, downstairs, some even in the bathroom, for those epic bowel movements.
I gathered them all up and separated them by the following categories;
sci-fi/fantasy, memoirs, beauty/health, various religious/spiritual readings, non-fiction/reference material, self-help and journals. I have a thing for journals, I usually fill out the first few pages and then buy another one purely based on the feel of the paper they’re made from.
One good thing Marie brings up, is the idea of books you keep, intending to read, but never quite get around to.
I’ve tried reading Cloud Atlas on about ten different occasions. I had to realize, even though it’s one of those books you’re supposed to read and enjoy, I just wasn’t getting it. The language was just too high-brow for me. So into the toss box it went, along with Lolita and The Art of War.
Some time this week, I plan to gather up all the books I’ve chosen to send back out into the world and drop them off at the local jail. The Chaplain said they’re in dire need of books for the inmates and they’ll accept pretty much any paperback book I don’t want anymore. Though, I’m not giving them my copies of Fifty Shades, apparently the females were fighting over the one copy they had.
Who wants them?