Spring Cleaning: A True Story

Last Sunday, I had a truly heavenly morning. My boyfriend and I woke up to gorgeous sun and warmth, with a light spring breeze wafting over the crisp sheets on my bed. The traffic seemed a distant ruckus compared to the glorious melodies of the birds outside my window. We sighed and turned to one another, moved by the beauty of the day, and spent the next few hours paying attention to each other rather than the clock.

When he realized it was Daylight Savings Time and that life had proceeded an hour ahead of him, my boyfriend swiftly got out of bed and put his clothes on, driven by fear that consuming his morning coffee in the early afternoon might tarnish the flow of what otherwise promised to be a spectacular day. As he rushed out the door to the nearest café, spare keys in hand, he failed to notice me groan and turn to hide my face under the covers. My sense of woe, however, was not because of his departure, as I knew he would return. You see, while for others Daylight Savings Time means the luscious promise of longer days, more light, and the inevitable unfolding of summer, for me—in the most immediate sense—it meant one thing: spring cleaning.

I am what my nearest and dearest friends call a “packrat.” I am not wealthy, spoiled, or excessive (well, definitely not the first two, at least), I just have a hard time throwing anything away. I like to think of myself as a collector or, better yet, some weird superhero whose unique talent lies in being able to fill to the brim whatever living space she inhabits. I wish I had someone to blame, but I do not. There was no abject poverty in my childhood that instilled within me a foreboding sense of scarcity. I just have unfortunate and unhealthy sentimental ties to most items in my apartment.

Well, that … and quite frankly, I was lazy. My collection of stuff encouraged a lack of deep cleaning. How could anyone possibly expect me to move that heavy TV stand, laden with candles, photographs, and paintings, in order to clean behind it? I truly believed that dust would never be able to find my coffee table, covered as it was with various decorative knickknacks.

Here was my studio apartment’s humble inventory: I had twelve shelves overflowing with books, because I have a dream that someday I will own a used bookstore. I had two guitars, one mandolin, a keyboard, flute, and djembe. I had five plants, sixteen framed photographs on my nightstand, seven purses of various colors and sizes, three yoga mats, and a bureau I could barely close. In my closet, I had five pairs of cowgirl boots (one with holes in the bottoms of both heels), fourteen scarves, three coats from three different ex-boyfriends, eight pairs of black open-toed heels, and sweaters dating back to the eighth grade.

In the veeeerrry back of my closet lived a fly-fishing pole, kickboxing gloves, three cheap cameras bought from three foreign countries, camping equipment, an exercise ball, and all my cassette tapes from high school, including the professional recording made my senior year, of our production of Grease. (I was Frenchy.) I know this now, mind you, after last Sunday.