Back in the day, when my blog was funny and people left comments, I wrote about a particular problem I have with hoarding boxes.
If you have a little time to spend with me today, perhaps you would like to read that post and then rejoin me for this sequel. If you need further enticement, the original post includes my high school senior picture, and it's a doozy! Intrigued? Here ya go:
I would like to say that the intervention of five years prior in a dark and box-filled basement storage room in Colorado was rock bottom for me, but . . . alas.
We've lived exactly one year in Katy, Texas. (For reals! Isn't that crazy?!)
And we don't have basements here.
But we do have a garage.
And in our case, a convenient carport with a handy side door that has allowed us to leave our garage haphazardly filled with random stuff that we don't want to figure out what to do with.
The conditions were just too perfect.
For a relapse:
That, my friends, is one year of boxes. Yes, your eyes do not deceive you, that IS, in fact, a French Toast Sticks box at the very top. It's not even mailable, for goodness' sake!
I have a problem.
The first step is admitting it.
The second step is breaking down all these boxes and hauling them to the curb for recycling.
That second step has been, shall we say, daunting.
Recently I found Karl googling "How to stop procrastinating" when he was supposed to be doing something else.
Let's pause and appreciate the irony, shall we?
(The apple barely even clears the tree!)
Every Monday I step around the box pile to take out the trash and the recycle bins, which are filled with an assortment of newspapers, milk jugs, glass jars, cans and plastics, but never any boxes. I can't really say what it was about today that made me consider tackling the boxes.
Perhaps it was the pressing deadlines that I'm not sure I'll meet. (apple, tree)
Perhaps it was a recent disagreement with John in which my box pile was not-so-delicately mentioned.
Perhaps it was a desire to feel successful.
Whatever it was, I stood looking at the pile of boxes and thought "How about now?"and dove in.
Worried that I would not finish before the recycling truck rolled up, and feeling the temperature creep up at what seemed to be one degree per box, I called in a reinforcement. Emma has to work off the cost of a lost textbook and agreed to help me for reduction in her bill. After a half an hour she renogotiated for a higher price and I willingly agreed.
We hauled every last one of them to the curb. I didn't keep even one box!
Here is Emma, standing where the pile used to be, with an expression that clearly communicates: "I need air conditioning and will you take the picture already, Mom?! Geez!"
And here are the fruits of our labors, all ready for the truck, which rolled up just now as I was typing and the piles are gone. GONE, I say!
Am I cured?
Probably not, but at least for today . . . you can't call me Boxhoarder!