As an aspiring minimalist, my seasonal cleaning ritual usually unfolds like this: I daydream about pristine drawers, clear countertops, and spacious rooms. Then I come to the harsh realization that we possess an overwhelming amount of stuff. Cue the panic. I start barking orders at my family to just get rid of some of it. Soon enough, I come to terms with the futility of it all. I resign myself to the fact that our home will resemble a discount aisle at a toy store or an exploded sporting goods section for the next decade and a half. I mutter forget this sh*t and throw in the towel.
I can now accurately forecast the timing of these “everything must go” rants. There’s the pre-holiday purge, spurred by the thought of an influx of unnecessary items, followed by the post-holiday freak-out about where to stash all this new junk. Then comes spring, when everyone else seems to be decluttering, and I attempt to join in reluctantly. There’s also the despair after binge-watching home improvement shows, and the hormonal-induced meltdowns that make me wonder why I seem to be the only one doing anything around here.
Regardless of the occasion, it all feels the same. I typically kick things off with high hopes and lofty ambitions. I clap my hands, trying to channel my inner cheerleader, and in an overly cheerful tone reminiscent of a cartoon character, I announce, “Okay, everyone! We’re going to clean! We’re going to toss! We’re going to donate! Ready, set…go team!”
My family stares back at me wide-eyed, like deer caught in headlights, before launching into their collective groans of “Do we have to, Mom?”
Yes, my beloved hoarding offspring, we must.
Trash bags are pulled from the cabinet, and boxes are dragged up from the basement. We spend what feels like hours (it’s probably more like minutes) filling bags with trash and stacking boxes destined for Goodwill. Books get shelved, and clothes are folded into drawers.
But soon enough, the ghosts of poor decisions come back to haunt me. The broken hockey set, countless baseball cards, and that ridiculous Cozmo robot I bought during a moment of pre-holiday panic — why did I ever think that was a good idea?
Before long, I’m sweating bullets, the rooms look messier than before due to all the sorting, and we’re all thoroughly irritated. Clearly, moving is the only solution.
While the kids are distracted with long-forgotten Magna-Tiles, I spiral into an existential crisis. How did we accumulate all this stuff? Meanwhile, there are children out there with absolutely nothing to play with, and here I am with 19 different X-Wing fighters and a staggering 743 Pokémon cards. Why can’t I part with the makeup from my wedding day, 13 years ago? When would I ever reread Cervantes? And why do I hold onto those low-rise jeans that I will never fit into again? WHO AM I, and why do I possess this junk?
Enough is enough! I decide to fully embrace the KonMari minimalist lifestyle. I’m determined to downsize to the point that we could comfortably fit into a tiny house. All this stuff is just that — stuff. It clearly doesn’t bring us joy. I even think about adopting a Buddhist philosophy of non-attachment. That must be the solution.
But wait! What if I need turquoise eyeliner one day? What if my son discovers I tossed his rare Charizard card? And surely those X-Wing fighters could be worth something someday, right? My husband seems to think so.
Maybe it’s time to try a different approach. But I’ve already attempted every organizational strategy imaginable. I’ve invested in storage containers, bookshelves, and aesthetically pleasing toy bins. I even bought a fancy label maker to mark everything I was organizing.
Here’s the kicker: good intentions are not a magic solution, and let’s face it, I’m a bit lazy. I despise cleaning, and despite my aspirations of becoming a master organizer, I quickly find myself buried under a mountain of broken Happy Meal toys, baseball cards, and headless action figures.
In the end, all I’ve accomplished is a deep-seated resentment for my home. It will never resemble the polished spaces I see on “Rafterhouse,” unless you count chipped paint and crooked photos as shabby chic. The reality is, my family is filthy. Each box of clutter makes it harder to ignore the dirt, grime, and general ickiness hiding beneath. Clean windows only highlight the peeling paint on the sills. Sweeping under the appliances reveals the truth: my family would roll around in their own filth if given the chance. And peering inside the light fixtures? Let’s just say our home has become an insect graveyard. Some things are better left unknown.
Forget moving; I’d rather set the place on fire and start fresh. But that’s not realistic. So, I surrender. I’ll just shove everything into a closet, pour myself a glass of wine, and enjoy it outside, away from the chaos of these messy beings.
Mission accomplished. Task complete.
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Summary
Spring cleaning can feel like an insurmountable task, especially when we’re faced with the clutter we’ve accumulated over the years. The journey often shifts from initial excitement to chaos, leading to existential musings about the nature of our possessions. Despite our best intentions, the reality of cleaning often reveals deeper issues within our homes and families. In the end, perhaps it’s best to accept the mess and find solace in a quiet moment with a glass of wine.