I NEED AN INTERVENTION, NOT A RESOLUTION
Yes, I say this every year. I do mean it, and I consistently complete a little something. I say that I am not going to make a New Year’s Resolution, I am going to set small goals. This year is no different.
To begin with, I know that I always write about the same things, or at least in the same way. I frequently write in a similar style. Over and over I throw out an idea or a quote and go to town about some vaguery in my life only to end up telling you, my reader, how you can make your life better.
My best stuff or the stuff that makes this worthwhile to me is the stuff that is more me, less on the nose. My favorite posts, if I am allowed to have a favorite amongst my posts, are those that do not seem as much like a traditional blog and are more like a story, or an essay.
So, I am intervening. I am putting up a brick wall in front of my usual blog road to try some new voices this year. I am going to start hitting you with some fleshed out versions of my actual journal. G-d help us all. It will likely be hit-and-miss.
My husband says this post is “sad” and I think it is funny.
Weird. He is weird. Ok, I am weird. Whatever.
Whatever the case, I felt like this intervention was long in coming if I wanted to grow. As to the following? Well, I have apparently lost my everloving mind. You be the judge.
I DON’T NEED A RESOLUTION
It is finally time to do something about my overflowing laundry hamper. I have not done laundry since before Thanksgiving. It feels like New Year’s Day is a good enough day, as any, to begin tackling this monster that has been looming in the corner for weeks.
How could this pile grow to such an immense and terrifying thing? I don’t have enough clothes to do that much laundry, do I?
THE LAST TIME I MADE A RESOLUTION
I tried to apply minimalism to my closet. I rid myself of my “work” clothes since I do not work. What is the point of Ann Taylor blouses and dry clean only, fully lined pants for hours of binge-watching Netflix on the couch? That is what yoga pants and t-shirts are for, am I right? I did the Marie Kondo thing too.
I donated what I had not worn in a year. Women who had, at one time, been in abusive relationships, are wearing my clothes to interviews and new jobs. That feels good.
I CANNOT DRESS MYSELF
I accidentally got myself to a point where I had the perfect number of tops and varying bottoms, but none of them matched one another. What is worse, I wasn’t even sure what matched some of my pants. When did the emotional colorblindness happen?
I remember when Garanimals was a thing. When I was a kid, I knew I could match a zebra top with zebra pants, and I was golden. Now, with this new wardrobe I had chosen for myself, the Sudara Indian patterned, cotton, drawstring pants, and capris of many colors, I was stuck. Black shirts, white shirts, white shirts with some meaningful text, black shirts with shorter sleeves than the other black shirts, and so on. How many pairs of Punjammies did I need? Apparently, a lot!
Suddenly, I am finding the heaps of shirts at Costco very attractive. Before, when I was an Ann Taylor/Nordstrom woman, Costco was a pajama stop. Now I am at Costco digging through each table for my size in every color. It is not just the look of the clothes I like; it is the concept. The idea that I can grab fists full of blouses and shirts while I pick up steak and dog food is exciting! Plus, when you buy a shirt for $5.99, you do not even feel guilty if you only wear it twice.
I can spot my fellow Costco Fashionistas a mile away. Even on Maui, waiting for our table at a restaurant I spied a woman wearing my dress. Not the dress I had on at present. That would have been embarrassing! I wanted to whisper, “I have that dress too, isn’t it the best?” My husband stopped me and said I might embarrass her. Did that mean that I should be embarrassed about my Costco dress?
I blame Costco for my losing battle against the scourge of the sagging closet rod. Costco is why I had to order the thin, ‘velvet’, non-slip hangers from Amazon. I could not order twenty-five, I had to order fifty.
I raise my fist to you, Costco, and as I stare into the abyss of this laundry.
JUST DO IT
Now I begin the long overdue first load of laundry. This cannot be put this off another day. I need to do laundry for the reason most lazy people finally break down and do laundry: underwear.
Image of sorting my laundry: I start with my golden rule, “only wash as much as you are willing to fold.” Because of my rule, some loads are small; some loads are combined oddly to guarantee that half the clothes go from washer to hanger and half go from washer to dryer. This process leaves less to fold. I really hate folding laundry, and I try to hang as much as I can. I don’t have many drawers anyway, so this works out pretty well.
JAZZIN’ FOR BLUE JEANS
And black jeans, and white jeans, and peach jeans…
My first load of laundry was a load of jeans. There seemed to be an unusual number of jeans. To quell my curiosity, I counted them as I put them in the washer. Seven! Seven pairs of jeans needed washing. How could I have so many pairs of jeans in my hamper yet I had not noticed that I was missing a single pair? I direct you to exhibit J.
OUT OF SIGHT
It occurs to me now that Costco is a strange philosophical temple and enabler of the religion of “Out of Sight Out of Mind.” When I remove my jeans and put them in my hamper, BUT they are not awaiting the washer. In my warped perception, when I toss a pair of jeans into the hamper, they no longer exist. Thus, when I see jeans at Costco, or anywhere, really, I think, “Oh, jeans, I need jeans!”
If I would just do my laundry, fold the jeans, and put them away, I would see that I own about fifteen pairs of jeans.
I NEED AN INTERVENTION
So, it is New Year’s Day. I am trying to do laundry. I have managed to get that load of jeans into the washer, that was three hours ago. This is why I cannot make resolutions. I can barely set small, attainable goals.
Who knows, if I can keep this goal, the goal of washing my jeans, maybe I will complete two goals. I will have a heaping pile of clean jeans, and I can officially trespass myself from the jean table at Costco.
Wish me luck!