If furniture, appliances and inanimate objects could have hurt feelings, I should most probably owe quite a most humble and abject apology to all the dressers and other tables I’ve used throughout my lifetime. I’ve been known to stuff clothes quiet recklessly into drawers and to leave all sorts of things, ranging from toothpaste stains to discarded receipts, upon them. Never having been a perfectionist about my organizational skills I tend to be quite sloppy and leave things in places where they should never be allowed to stay. It’s a good thing furniture can’t react to anything that’s done to it because I can imagine all the whining mine would do. The dressers and tables, among other things, would feel so cramped and restricted, always covered with pile of things and having all sorts of paraphernalia lying around upon them. They would be afflicted with a major attack of claustrophobia. Ever the master of messiness, I always seem to have five feet of things crammed into only enough space for three feet of things. My drawers are forever stuffed with things that simply don’t fit the least bit well into them. Lately I’ve been using white plastic bags in an attempt to ease the clutter with regard to laundry. I make sure I put recently washed and dried clothes into them. My book shelves have quite an infinite number of books and periodicals upon them, significantly more than they can reasonably be expected to handle. Messiness is a problem that goes back to my very earliest days.
I’ve always been quite pathologically disorganized. My old friend Jo Anne, reminded me a few years ago that when we were kids in St. Gabriel’s she and the other kids from our neighborhood used always to have to wait quite an obscenely long time before I was finally ready to go home from school. It plagues me to this very day. If I could have a key
to one room to which I ordinarily don’t have access, it would be the key to Organization Girl’s room. Organization Girl, from what I’ve always heard, is such an exceptionally fine lady and she appears to understand that not everyone is good at keeping things very neatly arranged and clean as a whistle. She knows that some of us tend to be awfully seriously absent minded and less than sufficiently attentive to life’s unavoidably necessary details. From what I’ve always heard of her, she’ll give me quite a good stern talking-to and flatly forbid me to leave until I’ve mastered each and every single one of the minimum requirements that are involved in being truly tidy and good at keeping track of things. “I’m not getting down from this washing machine,” she’ll sternly inform me, “until you’ve truly learned how to keep track of things in an efficient manner, whether you like it or not!”
Right now my bedroom is significantly messier than my computer’s desktop. I’ve always been a bit of a slob. When I was a kid I lived in Jackson Heights. My friend Jo Anne reminded me once, a few years ago, that when we were kids in St. Gabriel’s, at the end of each day all the other kids from our 92nd Street group used inevitably to have to wait for me to get ready to leave school because I was always so nightmarishly disorganized. Unfortunately that’s one of the bad things about me that haven’t changed since my very earliest days. In my defense, though, this bedroom is significantly more neatly organized than other’s I’ve had throughout the past many decades. Most of the messy things are clothes separated on the floor into piles, one neat and one dirty, and besides them there’s a big pile of sheets and blankets just waiting for the much dreaded cold weather finally to kick in. My books and toiletries are all neatly arranged. At least it’s currently quite an organized mess. I just have to get it more neatly arranged. I tend not to throw things away soon enough so I always have quite a pile of junk mail and obsolete church bulletins lying around long after they serve no purpose. Unfortunately when my kind of Oscar Madison shows up, everyone else feels compelled to play the role of Felix Unger. That alone is enough to make me sick and tired, by now, of all the incessant whining, to the point where I end up wising up and trying to change.