Spring Cleaning

August in April is over. I enjoyed it while it lasted—my pedicured toes in sandals on Easter and on a couple of days at school, hairclips, cropped pants, no jackets. And now we’re back to spring. Real spring. Trees are budding and temps will be in the 50s, not the 80s, this weekend. Still nice, yes, but not nearly as tempting to be outside today as during our aberration with summer weather, so I thought I might tackle some spring cleaning projects inside.

I was feeling overwhelmed, like I could only keep things clean and uncluttered for a few days at a time. I looked around yesterday morning and it occurred to me that I need more storage space. That is, it occurred to me that I need to make better use of my ample storage space. I need to get into my closets and get rid of stuff that I haven’t used or needed in years, to make room for recycling, say, so it doesn’t have to be in plain view before I take it outside, or for things that end up on the end of my dining room table while I decide where they should go. I want to get to the place where if someone was ever in here snooping while I was away, for whatever improbable reason, I’d be okay knowing that they took in a look in my closets. I want to be a woman who, rather than jump up and body-block a closet door when a helpful friend is trying to lend a hand (I’m actually not that bad), will sit proudly waiting for a compliment to come. “Your closet is so organized!,” someone will say. I’ll answer simply, as if it’s no big deal or effort, when clearly I have the packrat gene. “Thanks,” I will say, not mentioning that I spent an entire Saturday in the spring getting it organized.

So yesterday after school I drove to Wal-Mart and bought some easy-to-put-together storage shelving. With the small amount of energy I had left after I finally got home, I put the shelves together, emptied the majority of the contents of my closet into my front hallway, and put the shelves in the closet. I was almost as excited about the shelving as I was the floor vase arrangement of forsythia I made a couple of weeks ago. (I said almost.) At least I was happy enough to go to bed without tackling the piles that are lying on the floor waiting for me to transfer them to a Hefty bag for a trip to the dumpster.

I’m not surprised that I didn’t find any treasures—no favorite missing t-shirt, no perfectly worn in flannel pants—in that laundry basket that’s been full and tucked in the corner since I moved.  I am surprised that it took so long to deal with what amounts to a big pile of evidence that I have a hard time throwing things away.

Still.