Recently, I used the term “space junk” in conversation. I’m not sure why. But it’s pretty applicable to my organizational skills.
Spreadsheets, I can handle. Essay and story organization, I’ve got it down.
That’s about right.
For lack of better word, “stuff” occupies small piles on my floor. It rests in the backseat of my old car, hanging out like an old man on the porch with a brew. It’s not going anywhere. My email accounts are filled with useless messages that I keep anyway.
Somehow, I find the sentimental value in everything. A receipt, a note someone left tucked into my windshield wipers, the one-line email from a friend or teacher. A T-shirt I haven’t worn since ninth grade. Pants that I *might* wear one day. People on Facebook that I’ll never talk to again but leave them on my Friends list anyway, just because.
But now, I’m fighting back.
Folders, folders, folders. Move those emails and push that paper. “My Documents” never looked so tidy, cover letters now in their own space and drafts of articles in another. The documents left in the main folder are the strictly creative ones. As it should be.
I deleted or moved over one hundred emails last night. Old meet line-ups and memos: balled up and thrown away. I finally worked up the nerve to toss out the yellow poncho from Puerto Rico, which I would have kept had it not ripped as we walked/ran through the hours-long downpour.
(There’s still time to yank it from the garbage.)
(Now, from writing this, I probably will.)
Because sometimes, the softer side gets the best of me.
I drove up to the church drop-off bin for clothing donations. The plastic bag waited in the passenger seat, ready to go.
I took it out of the car. Hesitated.
Pulled out a pair of periwinkle flip-flops, tossed the rest of the bag into the bin, and drove back.
You never know.