Spring Cleaning: A True Story

Before last Sunday, I was careful to avoid the back of my closet. This avoidance was made easier, of course, by the clothes shopping I had done that winter, the fruits of which had accumulated into a frontline barrier guarding access to the rest of my closet. (In my defense, I do believe that winter makes retail therapy all the more justifiable, and I happen to be within walking distance of three of the best thrift stores in San Francisco.)

A few motivating factors contributed to my realization that I could not continue to live this way. One: besides my bureau, I could no longer close either of my closet doors. Two: my friend Amanda and I had talked about moving in together when she returned to San Francisco from Idaho, but I quickly realized a move was not possible for me. Not only did we discover that many apartments in this city are not equipped with closets, but I also became overwhelmed at the amount of effort it would require to organize the contents of my current apartment. Three: my mother, who lives in Pennsylvania, moved to the mountains last summer and begged me to come home over Christmas and finally deal with all the boxes that had collected dust in the back of my closet in my old bedroom. I acquiesced and was amazed to discover boxes filled with notes written in the seventh grade dealing with highly trivial matters and folded like footballs, college sweatshirts I had never worn, ice skates, photographs, years’ worth of Christmas cards, and stuffed animals I had collected from birth until age twenty-two, when I moved out west.

It was a humbling experience, and I realized that if I did not do something about my current living situation, my collection of junk would only continue to grow. Not only did I apologize profusely for ignoring my mother’s requests over the years, but I realized that my need to horde would have to stop. It was time to acknowledge those three boxes filled with Lord-only-knows-what that I had never opened from my last move two years ago. This year, I would have to put the concept of spring-cleaning to the test.

On the Sunday in question, I called my boyfriend and admitted my plan, as well as my determination to start that afternoon. He offered, between sips of coffee, to come help me, but there was no way I was going to let him be privy to contents of my closet that even I didn’t know about. I promised to call him that evening, sighed, and got out of bed.

The main area of my apartment was too daunting, so I started with the bathroom.