fitover50

I’m a hoarder. I admit it. I’d like to blame my parents for some genetic defect. After all, they came from that depression era mentality of keeping anything that could, conceivably, someday have some sort of a life again. If it were up to them I would probably still have my tie-dyed shirts and bell-bottom pants from the seventies. (Actually, I wouldn’t be too far out of style with that look right now.)

But, it would be unfair to cast blame in their direction, God rest their souls. I learned this demented little behavior all on my own. Deep down inside I am a cheap-skate. So, if I keep my stuff for decades, it may save me from spending money somewhere down the road on something I don’t really want to spend money on.

At least, that’s how the theory goes. In reality, whenever my stuff gets out of hand, I become the possession and my stuff is in charge. That’s how I feel right now. As I look in closets and on shelves, I see my captor staring back at me. This has got to stop.

And so, once again, I make a pledge to myself to clean up, clean out and discard some non-sensical pile of useless baggage. Somehow, past the age of 50, that stuff manages to multiply at a new and unfathomable rate.

This is the one small change I have on my agenda today. Wish me luck.

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