I worship at the altar of organization. I read the books, articles, and blog posts that promise me 30 Days to an Organized Life. I have a Pinterest board that shows beautiful pictures of ways to organize everything from my mud room to my spice drawer.
Somehow, I feel if I were organized I would have time for all the things I want to do and don’t get to do. I could go on holiday. Read best sellers. Get manicures. Learn to tap dance. I would have a vibrant life, or at least I wouldn’t feel guilty if I did those things because while I was doing those things, my UN-organized life wouldn’t be bleating pitifully in the background. Instead, it would be organized, chugging along automatically, keeping itself charged and on the right course.
If and when I needed to turn to my organized life and retrieve, say, the tape measure to find out whether that cute bookcase I saw at the thrift store would fit in my study, I would know right where to look. The tape measure would be exactly where it should be. I wouldn’t have to look in six different places to find it. I wouldn’t have to buy a new tape measure. I wouldn’t have to resort to stepping-off the space and making a mental note that the bookcase cannot be more than eight steps by two and a half steps. No. Life would be streamlined. Simple. Easy. Organized. Happy.
Yes, I go to church at Our Lady of Organization. However, my religion hasn’t come home with me. My closets are muddled. My cupboards are eclectic. My drawers are jumbled. My office space is toxic.
I’ve put Get Organized on my list of yearly goals once again. It’s right next to Simplify My Life. I’ve made a list of the spaces I should attack, and my blogs are on the list because I don’t like having my flash fiction mixed in with my personal anecdotes, etc. I won’t bother you with the details. Let’s just say I’m going to take my socks out of the silverware drawer. Our Lady will be glad.