Clearing the clutter restores karma
Out with the old, anything not nailed down
With each new year I ring in, I’m overcome with hope, anticipation and an uncontrollable urge to pitch everything in the house that’s not nailed down.
The minute I torpedo the Christmas tree out the front door at 5 a.m. on Dec. 26, I start spring cleaning. I make like Santa and fill sacks with games, clothes and our heirloom fine China collection — anything that hasn’t been used within 72 hours — to be deposited in the Goodwill donation bin. Ho! Ho! Ho! As they say, out with the old and out with anything that’s not nailed down. At least that’s what I say.
My family resists this fun purging tradition like it’s a root canal. Every time I hold a shirt or jacket two centimeters from their faces and ask, “You wear this?” they get hot under the collar and say hurtful things like, “I will wear it again. Just not today. Geez.” I persist, “Do you need this?” “Mom, that’s my pillow.” Tough crowd. It feels like a losing battle as my husband and sons cling to stuff that they “need” like their winter coats and iPhones. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why
I bother trying to create a streamlined home with feng shui that Marie Kondo would die for.
I’m deathly allergic to clutter. We recently renovated our kitchen and when the decorator who helped me asked what kind of vibe I was going for, I said, “The unlived-in look.” She laughed. I didn’t. After decades of climbing over book bags and hockey gear to find the coffee machine in the morning, I now have a barren wasteland of empty countertops
— I store the toaster in a cupboard, the air fryer in the garage and the coffee machine in my arms. And I’ve never been happier.
I’ve been known to be somewhat hasty in my culling
over the years. The endless pile of mail is a source of annoyance for me and more than once, I’ve mistakenly thrown out important documents like my new credit card — the spotless countertop was almost worth digging through the trash at the curb for an hour to find it.
When our boys were toddlers, they’d occasionally find an adorable drawing they’d made with the title
“To mommy. xoxo” poking through a chicken carcass in the garbage can. Their confused little faces broke my heart, so I’d always give them a hug and tell them, “Daddy threw that out. He’s a monster.”
My husband, on the other hand, saves things like he’s
lived through the Depression. He has a collection of empty boxes “for Christmas presents,” eight pairs of worn-out lawnmowing sneakers and the first computer that was ever made “in case I need it for parts.” He has to be sedated when I go through his clothes. I’ve tried to do it when he’s conscious, but it never works. Every article of clothing I suggest he get rid of is met with a solid reason it should remain in the closet:
Him: “I wear that shirt when I paint.”
Me: “You don’t paint.”
Him: “Are you kidding me? Those are my Air Jordans!”
Me: “You haven’t worn them since 1983.”
Him: “No way. Not my AAA midget hockey jacket.”
Me: “Here. Drink this special elixir I made for you. Shhhhh. It won’t be long now…”
Garbage day is my weekly opportunity to shine. It’s the one day each week I don’t have to ask permission to chuck stuff. I train hard for the big event — I regularly go behind my husband and remove discarded milk cartons and yogurt containers from the green bin and properly relocate them to the blue bin. I wait breathlessly for the bathroom garbage cans to overflow before dumping them in the big blue bags of my dreams. Then it’s game day — when I wheel the bins of debris to the end of the driveway, I become euphoric, much like when I find a partially eaten Aero bar in the pocket of my winter jacket that I haven’t worn for five years. Total bliss.
I must say, 2022 is off to a hopeful start — so far, I’ve brought two garbage bags’ worth of gently used items to the Goodwill donation bin while everyone was home for the holidays. I can only imagine the sacred treasures I’ll throw out behind their backs once they leave. I hope everyone has their priorities straight like I do and will enjoy a clutter-free 2022!
Oh, and I also hope we get a handle on COVID, global warming and world peace. Glad (garbage bags) tidings, everyone!
Colleen Landry is a high school writing teacher, author of humour book Miss Nackawic Meets Midlife and co-author of the Camelia Airheart children’s adventure series. She and her husband are empty nesters in Moncton, N.B. Their two grown sons have ditched them for wider horizons. She is filling the void with Netflix, dark chocolate and Cabernet Sauvignon.