Every week I get a nifty little email from organizational guru Peter Walsh giving me my next assignment for decluttering my house. I’d like to say we’re best buds, on a first name basis, and he emails me because I’m a VIB—Very Important Blogger.
But sadly, that’s not the case.
I signed up at the beginning of that whole Oprah campaign. No, not the Obama bandwagon, but the Clean Up Your Messy House tour. I signed up because I didn’t want to be the only person on the planet living a clutterful life.
So like clockwork, Mr. Walsh (and probably his buddy Hal the computer) shoots me and a gajillion other people an email with our assignment for the month. I dutifully open it, scan through his latest suggestions, then promptly forward it to all the messy people I know.
I wish I could tell you I dutifully perform all those tasks, but after I expend energy hitting the button to forward the email, I calmly leave my computer, shut the door to my laundry room, and ignore the clatter of my clutter.
Then, of course, I have to locate my stash of emergency chocolate because frankly, I find all this talk of decluttering one’s life and this "Clean Up Your Messy House" shebang rather depressing.
Now don’t get me wrong. I certainly admire Mr. Walsh. I find it amazing that someone can earn a small fortune just by telling people to pick up their socks, open their mail, and stop buying junk. Who knew?
It’s just that I can’t seem to shake this feeling that if I were just a tad bit rich, just a smidgen wealthy, I would actually have, as my mother always used to say, a place for everything and everything in its place. Let’s face it, it’s not like I’ve amassed lots of things on my schoolteacher's salary. But you don’t have to be a Nobel Prize winner to know that more space provides more room for more stuff. So I figure, if I had roughly 4,000 square feet instead of my 1,990, well Jiminy Cricket, my stuff would be, well, organized.