Juggling Junk

It's times like these that make me wish I had heeded all those primitive looking signs that say SIMPLIFY. Whenever I  see one in the store, I  smile and agree, but deep inside I know it is all such  bullcrap  propaganda  so... unrealistic. Especially for a gal like me that saves the little plastic swords from fancy cocktails and has tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to recycle dryer lint. Now I'm facing the fact that I may be moving and it has opened up this huge reality that perhaps I am a hoarder. There, I said it.

Whispered it, really, but I've always heard that the hardest part is admitting you have a problem.

Except, I don't like to think if it as a problem exactly. I think of it as a tiny quirk in my artistic neurotic unique personality. I've got baggage. And it consists of scraps and beads and glue and paint. Books and pens and fabric and buttons. Goodwill goodies, yard sale yummies and thrift store thrills.
Or, as my husband so furiously  angrily  delicately describes it : JUNK.

I know he's always dreamed I'd be one of those uncomplicated and unburdened type of women who immediately shreds unwanted mail, thins out closets to only essentials, and has never coveted a knick knack in her entire life. He would be happy if all the kitchen countertops were bare, the linen closet was an OCD's dream, and the garage would actually have room for a car.

Heck, I dream of being that way, too. But we are being honest here. I'm not one of those women and could almost bet  I never will be. I like embellishments, bling, collections and organized clutter. I like big bins overflowing with craft supplies, dog-eared magazines thick with inspiration and paintbrushes stuffed in jars like strange bouquets. I like textures and totes and odd treasures. I find a peculiar sense of satisfaction in being surrounded by color and kitsch and little pre-loved objects that I've saved from the landfill.

Yeah. I'm really starting to sound pretty crazy here. I've scared myself.

Fact is, I must become one of those women my husband dreams about. A woman who lives such a basic, unadorned life that she never has to dust figurines, pack old tee shirts in the back of the closet, or spend two days trying to find the kids' birth certificates. I must sort, shave down and select. I have no choice.

I imagine my new home. Bright. Basic. Airy and unadorned. Simple and sweet and soft. No extras, no frills, and no accessories. Martha Stewart closets, a Rachel Ray kitchen, an HGTV bathroom and a Nate Berkus everything else.

Simple?

Not really.

Because honestly... I've had some dreams of my own. Of a man who will love my JUNK!