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WASHINGTON—My
attic is a mess. The ample space under my roof is
crammed with toys, rugs, obsolete electronics, bank
statements and tax returns, record albums, plastic bags
full of baby clothes, books, two sets of fine china and
enough Christmas ornaments for the White House tree.
There is more than just stuff; there is stuff piled on
top of stuff. There is no more than three steps of
walking space in any direction. It is impossible to find
anything. City building inspectors would have a field
day writing code-violation citations up there.
Of all
the people I know, I never expected to be confounded by
clutter.
I grew
up in a four-room apartment in
New York.
The six closets were so small that my mother emptied
them out monthly, carrying plastic-shopping bags full of
old clothes and toys down the block to the Saint Vincent
de Paul donation box outside our church parish. In
college, my friend Sarah nicknamed me One-Bag Lizzie for
my ability to fit my considerable collection of Benetton
sweaters into a single suitcase that I dragged on Amtrak
when I went home on school breaks.
Yet here
in Washington, in the biggest house I’ve ever lived in,
a full quarter of the available floor space in my
center-hall Colonial is buried under complete chaos. It
seems impossible that I could have amassed so much
clutter. The answer has to do with laziness,
procrastination, grief, lack of time and slovenliness.
I have a
pretty good idea what happened. Having two children in
three years brought a swift accumulation of baby clothes
and equipment. Just before that, both my parents died.
As their only child, I was the sole heir to all their
possessions: lamps, rugs, artwork, photographs,
furniture, death certificates, family photos and 1990s
tax returns. When the movers brought it all to
Washington, I directed them to carry everything straight
to the attic and have never had the heart to sort it
out.
Add to
that a failure to create a filing system for massive
amounts of paper, including bills and taxes, old family
records and newspaper clippings. Mix in a lack of time
to unpack and sort through boxes that moved with my
husband and me five times in four years.
I’ve
always rationalized that these are deeply personal and
pretty forgivable reasons for my disorganization. But
they’re not unique.
So many
people buy things, receive gifts, accept hand-me-downs
and inherit stuff, much of which never leaves the house
again. Attics (and basements and garages and closets)
everywhere are crammed with useless items that owners
won’t or can’t bear to part with. That is one of the
many things I’m learning from Caitlin Shear, a
professional organizer from Fairfax, Virginia, who has
agreed to help me reclaim my attic.
At
nearly 700 square feet, the space has great potential.
If I can clean it out, I’d like to build cabinets for
storage and move our home office (currently in my son’s
nursery) up there. Maybe even put in a flat-screen TV.
So back
to the mess. In the next 11 weeks, with Caitlin’s
guidance, I’m going to see if I can clear out, clean up
and organize.
Next week: Getting Started |
