Grandmother was a hoarder -- a hoarder of junk. Really. Junk. Luckily, Grandmother was poor. Being poor, she could only accumulate so much. Mother is a hoarder. Mother is not poor and that has created shocking mountains in every room and various areas of the yard. Some junk. Some nice things. The nice, usable things are becoming not nice and not usable. The clutter of countless tschotskes is overwhelming. The master bedroom is a hazard zone. The bathroom counter is a mountain of makeup and moisturizers covered in an inch of dust. Nuts.
Now I feel the pull of hoarding. I look around and realize it has already begun. Scary. A little self examination makes me realize that I am a particular kind of hoarder -- a hoarder of information. I have books and magazines out the wazoo. What does this stuff mean to me? Again, self-examination reveals that the things I hoard represent opportunity. Nuts.
Today I started to release things. Roads not taken are roads long gone. Get over it.
