I find it interesting that pairs of shoes tossed together into a closet never land together.
Or anywhere near each other.
What are the odds?
One day I grab a shirt, and all is satisfactory behind my bifold doors.
It is organized, maybe not serial killer fashion, but enough to make out the different stacks and such.
And then the next time and the next time and all summer long.
Everything is even Steven.
And then, bam, it looks as though somebody threw a bomb into it and the doors can no longer even close.
Years ago, a friend said to my sweet Sven, "Where'd you get those shorts?"
"I found them in the closet in our loft," he answered.
"What is it, some kind of an ugly closet?" his friend said.
Anyway, I think it begins when I innocently pull a sweatshirt out of the ugly closet to wear as temperatures drop. Said sweatshirt then gets washed and comes upstairs in the basket to be hung up and or thrown into our bedroom for future wear.
Apparently, after about six weeks of this behavior, all of my belongings have been crammed into one room, leaving only the truly ugly clothes of all seasons, still hanging in the ugly closet.
But the good news is, I am all grown up.
This is only natural since I am sixty-five.
However, there was a time in my life when closets that looked as though they had been visited by a live hand grenade, would have been a permanent state of affairs.
I was much too busy for such mundane tasks as sorting clothes.
It was not for me.
Not very often anyway.
And then that dreaded year that I quit smoking made this task one hundred percent intolerable. A pain level of eleven.
But fifteen years would be a long time to leave your clothes as they are just because you have healthy lungs, and you cannot manage to do anything without your beloved cigarettes.
I had to relearn the horrifying experience without blowing smoke rings.
This was extremely difficult as this was the only part I ever liked.
I admit that I did drag my feet for a few years.
And then I finally went into training and just like anything I set my mind to do.
I can do it.
So, when I opened my closet door, er looked that way and saw what had transpired behind my back and right in front of my face once again, I took a deep breath and dove in headfirst, stuffing an industrial sized garbage bag with all that will not make this year's cut for the Academy Awards.
"What's that Louisa?"
Hang on a minute. My sister is saying something.
She said the Academy Awards were in March and I was never invited.
"Maybe I am talking about next year, Louisa!"
Anyway, it is interesting how many clothes I do keep on hand just in case I want to look like shit.
They are still hanging there.
And I am still going to wear them.
But the bag of Millie misfits is ready to go.
After spending a day in our kitchen, the big black bag made it into the way back of my car.
This bag will now travel the world, or at least go to Piggly Wiggly several times, maybe out for breakfast once or twice. It definitely will hang outside BS Club on Wednesdays, and there is a good chance it could make it all the way into Madison before I drop it off in the bin next to St. Vinny's.
I will undoubtably be surprised more than a dozen times as the hatchback rises, and I find there is no place to set my groceries.
But I know it will happen.
I will drop this bag off.
Seriously, I have no doubt.
Because look how far I have already come in such a short lifetime.