There is nothing offensive about cleaning out my closets. Nothing. The only problem is that I now have all my T-shirts organized and I can actually find them, and my daily routine of wasting time rummaging through piles on the closet floor has been disrupted.
It started a few days ago when Sheryl cleaned out her closet. She ended up with two huge garbage bags of clothes and shoes, which she donated to the Salvation Army.
So Monday morning, I went through my closet and discovered two pairs of shoes, a belt, a long-lost box of macaroni and cheese (I used to have to hide food, it's a long story), a box of golf balls and doctor's scrubs. Doctor's scrubs? Ah yes, left over from a Halloween band gig a few years back.
|Worn at 2015 Dream Court in Quincy|
Then I realized I have an untold number of T-shirts in upstairs closets. I don't go upstairs much anymore, because Sheryl's nephew is temporarily living up there (this is related to me hiding food, but it's a long story, even though I've mentioned it twice). I have archaeological layers of Gus Macker T-shirts, hats, jackets, and sweatpants up there, hundreds, probably thousands. And there are bags and bags of rare and valuable T-shirts from my days at Central Michigan University, The Alpena News and other places I no longer remember.
So. I've cleaned my closet. (But I haven't cleaned out my closets, yet.) I feel better about it. I know where stuff is. And if I want to use a euphemism for it, well .... I can find my bleep now, thank you.
I was getting hungry for mac and cheese, anyway. Nutty bar anyone?