I CLEANED OUT my bedroom closet last night. These urges to organize are getting the better of me, and please don't tell anybody because it could be very bad for my reputation.
Genie chewed up a few hats, shirts and shoes during her short time at the Hart Manor. I reluctantly parted with Six String Heroes and Central Michigan University ball caps. I am keeping a battered pair of running shoes, because the bite marks remind me of Genie and they are still good for mowing the lawn.
Then I found a wadded up Michigan sweatshirt. There is nothing fancy about it. It's gray. It has "Michigan" across the front. The sleeves are frayed and there's a big hole right below the front neckline.
I refused to throw it away because I've had it for a long time. I remember wearing it on a Lake Michigan beach and a Colorado ski hill. Is it wrong to have such an attachment to a ratty old sweatshirt?
Then I remembered I had two or three other sweatshirts with holes. That led to me looking at my T-shirts, and I must have hundreds of them. Some hang in the closet, others are stuffed in trash bags in upstairs closest. Why do I keep them? Are the memories that important?
Yes. No. I mean, uh, yes. YES. I must keep them. I must.
But the old Michigan sweatshirt finally went into the trash bin. Strangely, I felt better about it.
In the back room of Second String Music I must have 10 guitars stacked in a corner. Why? Do I need 10 guitars? No. Do I want 10 guitars? No. Actually, I want 20 guitars. But that's a whole different subject for another time.
My clothes closet is organized. I give it a week, maybe two, and it will be back to its normal disarray. I don't want this whole organized thing to stick, you know.