In my beloved mystery novels (writer's heroin) there are pizza boxes and overturned beer bottles among the underwear on the floor in the suspect's place. Oh, and the empty snack bag and half a sandwich. Maybe the racing form. The detectives usually expect this when they open the door.
I have no sandwiches on the floor. There are several clothing items that will not fit in the dresser. Also shoes (not as many as I'd like.) My pink dumbbells. And my purple ones. Books.
And The Desk.
I am notorious for not being able to part with paper. Even stupid paper. Even duplicate letters insisting on signatures on duplicate petitions re health insurance. And I have no bulletin board for the fairly intelligent letter from Blue Cross that explains everything except the dollar amounts for my policy. If I file it, I'll never remember to call and chastise them. Also, I have several receipts at any given time that need to be posted in my spending for the month. Okay, once it was several dozen.
My daughter put Dale Carnegie's book in the bathroom so I can't pretend I don't know where it is. He talks about a secretary who found a long-lost typewriter under the Stuff on her boss's desk! I have not lost my laptop. If you don't even have a desk, do you have a paper collection somewhere?
What I tell other people to do, and then forget, is that all those papers and books and the dustrag are sensory overload that my nerves don't need right now. Or ever.
That treasure box of dishes I brought to Texas will not create gracious living by themselves. They're no match for this desk and my worry at stoplights about whether I ever called that insurance company.
It's not about will power, it's what do I want and how do I want to see myself? A friend of mine sets a good example on that score. I just have to follow it.
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