I’ve never been much of a fashion-conscious dresser. That will come as no surprise to those who know me. Every now and then, I used to pretend that choosing my clothes was a sport I engaged in, but that always created feelings of being a fraud.
Eventually, I simply gave up and kept to my comfortable uniform of jeans, t-shirt and running shoes or hiking boots. I have reached an age where jeans aren’t as much fun as they used to be, so the options were tightened even more. But I realized a flaw in my character the other day, and it is going to require some adjustments on my part. Let me explain.
I’m engaged in what is called “Swedish death cleaning”, which I mentioned before in 2024, if some of you have a better memory than I do. This is the practice that is meant to reduce the workload of my children following my demise. It’s called döstädning in Sweden and is meant to “sort through and reduce possessions before death” and is considered “practical and selfless”, both of which I aspire to. But, and there is often a but, this is where my character flaw comes to light.
have dramatically reduced my inventory of cardboard boxes and jars and plastic yogurt containers and empty peanut butter jars. It was painful, but I saw it through, and now I only have two bins of collective potential storage containers. I thought I should be awarded the Order of Canada, but no one came calling.
I have very limited storage space in my wee home in the woods, but it turns out I can still safely harbour an extraordinary number of t-shirts that have paint on them, grease stains and who knows what else. These t-shirts are set aside for when I am doing messy work like cleaning out my rain gutters or painting a door or washing my car. I tell myself one can never have too many “work t-shirts,” but the problem is that when I am doing these tasks, I seem able to convince myself that I will do said task, as I have never done before, without getting anything on my currently unblemished t-shirt.
One would think it would take less time to switch up what I’m wearing than to add to the stack of damaged jerseys. They fit nicely into a bin under my bed, and it was only when I went searching for bed linen for guests that I discovered the excessive number of jerseys waiting to be called into service. I also found a bin of winter clothes that I thought I had looked everywhere for, but apparently never peered into the bins under my bed. I’d like to let myself off the hook for being an idiot, though that sounds harsh, and blame it instead on my age, but I’ve been this way for far too long. I had boxes filled with barn clothes, and in all fairness, I did dig into those boxes on a regular basis. But the habit didn’t die when I no longer had access to a barn.
What is the recourse to this dreadful flaw, though, as flaws go, I’m not sure it is harmful to anyone but me. I don’t rob banks; I don’t drive over the speed limit very often; I don’t smoke, though I’ve used that reasoning to justify buying more watercolour paint supplies than I need, so I shouldn’t rely on that for any sort of reasoning.
I hug trees and talk to birds, so perhaps that is the price of the ticket to save soiled t-shirts. I have promised myself that on this day, as soon as I’m done writing this, I shall venture into my bedroom and aggressively unload my “top drawer”, not to be confused with the first drawer from the top but rather the drawer that houses my current “tops”, as we like to call them.
I shall endeavour to whittle down the numbers to under 10. I’m wincing as I write this, but I think I can do it. However, it is a hot day, a very hot day, and I think I’ll sit in my chair with my knitting and a mint julep (whatever that is) and bid you good day, Miss Dipsy (a name that maybe only Lor will understand).
