Okay, I hate cleaning, so I suppose I've been living in semi-squalor for a long time, but I am trying to weed through decades of stuff and three kids' worth of stuff in a hopeful effort to maybe, possibly, with any luck, someday, down the road, in the future (etc., etc.) downsize my lifestyle.
By "downsize," I do not mean like tiny house living. That's just crazy talk. Those puppies aren't even anchored to the ground. One Kansas-like wind and my belongings would be spread from here to about three feet away (remember -- this is tiny living, right?). By "downsize," I mean possibly moving to a smaller place that still has things like closets
I had started in the basement over the winter and actually got rid of about thirteen bags of stuff. The basement isn't quite done, but that's okay; it's passable for now. This time around, I decide to start with something that has been bugging me for a long time: books.
I have way too many books. In the scheme of things, I don't have as many books as a hoarder might, but my stash is both eclectic and impressive. I have some rare books, and I have books on many of the major genres. Also, this is not my first book purge - not even close. I had to start purging books as a kid because I had been allotted one bookcase and only one bookcase. This is my third or fourth book purge just since living in my current abode (about thirteen years).
Still, though, some have to go. If I ever hope to be in a smaller place, I've got to free up some living space to make packing as seamless as possible. Books scattered in many bookcases all over the house (den, stairwell, bedroom, craft room, living room...) is not conducive to a quick nor easy turnaround when packing to move nor when unpacking on the other end.
I start with the fiction books, thinking that this will be an easy purge. A measly eight books later, I have a bag ready to go. This isn't a purge; it's a hiccup. There's only one solution -- I blow the place up. Seriously. I start emptying shelves everywhere and then I move bookcases to two locations: den and living room. That's it. Anything that doesn't fit (including my professional books and school texts) HAS to go.
This process that I thought would take mere hours has so far taken three days. The end is in sight, sort of. In the midst of all of this, I have started rearranging furniture, as well. Might as well go big or go .... home ... to another home ... or wherever. Proud of myself, I pack up seven bags of books to give away.
I run up to the Catholic church a few miles away. I've dropped stuff at their bins, and I know for a fact that there are two metal receptacles on site. Excited, I drive over. Nope. Only clothes here, too. But, there's a combination elementary-middle school about two miles away. They surely must have bins, so I head over there and drive all around the school. There are port-a-potties outside but not a single donation box. Well, unless you count the port-a-potty as a donation place of sorts, but that's another topic for another day.
This, to me, is strike three. I suppose I'll have to trudge over to Whole Foods and risk having someone recognize me and shame me for me wasteful addiction to books. On my way to Whole Foods, I decide to take one last-ditch ride to an older elementary school a few miles away. After all, it's practically on my way.
I pull into the school lot and go through the signs that warn me "Do not enter," but it's Sunday and there is one guy playing basketball and another guy hitting baseballs with his kid in the far field; I doubt they'll bust me for breaking an empty parking lot traffic directive. I don't see any metal donation receptacles and am about to turn my car around when I edge around one last corner.
Voila! There is not just one donation box but two large bins, and both accept books (plus a whole pile more of things). In go the seven bags, one at a time because they're kind of heavy. I feel so free; I feel so liberated. Plus, the sign on the bin suggests that the school gets a kickback from the recycling program, which sounds terrific to me.
Later on, after I've gotten home again and have managed to create a decent path from the living room through the den and into the kitchen, I figure it must be time to go to bed. It's dark out, the full moon has risen into the sky, I've hauled one bookcase to the curb for trash day (or lucky drivers-by), and the neighborhood is gotta-work-tomorrow quiet. I go upstairs, which still has some books piled around, turn down the bed, and promptly spy one more bag.
You. Must. Be. Joking.
Oh, crap. It's the original bag, the original collection of fiction from day #1 of the purge. It seems like so long ago that I convince myself that maybe it's a bag full of something else. But, no. It really is the first bag, which is now the last bag, bag #8. I haven't taken bag #8 to the book drop yet. I do have it tied shut to prevent me from losing my resolve and removing books from it that I suddenly feel the need to keep. No, there will be no keeping and no regrets. Most of all, though, there will be (at least) one more stop at the book container, which will be much easier now that I know where the bins are located.
