Procrastination disguised as de-cluttering.
Who am I kidding? Procrastination lessons from a master!
I’ve spent the past several days sorting, tossing, reorganizing (stuff, not clothes--that's a project for another procrastination binge). On the one hand, it’s satisfying, because I’m seeing order emerge (as well as more space for a growing Lego collection). On the other hand, I’m only doing it because I'm overwhelmed by all that I know I should be doing to launch my book. (It doesn’t help that I still don’t have a definite publication date—we’re on what I hope is the penultimate round of proofing—I still have to make sure these final final corrections are OK. Gahhh.)
Here's my pathetic tale.
In case you missed last week's story about ignoring the inner voice in my head, which led to The Moth Fiasco...
[16 moths stuck to BugMD in 16 days--fortunately none in vintage wool yardage]
After my Tibetan rug's tragic death by a thousand tiny bites, I knew I had to go through my stash of fabrics, which included three pieces of homespun wool my mom brought back from Canada decades ago. If I hadn’t sewed it into something by now, I admit it's never gonna happen.
De-clutterers will recognize my thought/action process:
This wool is beautiful, valuable, and deserves to go to someone who will actually use it.
If I donate it to a thrift store it will get lost in the shuffle.
Maybe I can do something different with it. Like, could I felt it?
Research “how to felt wool fabric” on the internet.
Boil the heck out of one piece, then roast it in the dryer.
Result: fabric remains completely unchanged.
List it “free” on Craigslist, hoping the right person will find it.
Time and energy spent? Don't ask.
I'm disgusted with myself.
I’ve got lots more to say about clutter, collecting and hoarding, after hearing an interview with Rebecca Falkoff on the BookDreams podcast about her new book, Possessed: A Cultural History of Hoarding. If you’re interested, I wrote about it on my blog at CreatingJoyfulSpaces.com. (Lots more there about clutter and home stuff). Believe it or not, I do not live in a pig sty.
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