I always think a bin will solve my problems

I am trying to find order in my chaos having just moved.
I think “order” fell off the truck somewhere between here and there.
As I tried to find a spot for the “essential” things, I did more moving them from one side of the room to the other than actually putting them away and some times to another room altogether.
There were a couple of moments, just seconds really, when I thought burning the place down and starting over from scratch was the better option.
I jest, in case my insurance broker is reading this.
But I did notice a common solution creep toward the question of, “What am I going to do with all these frames that I thought I would put photos in,” or the stockpile of sealer jars I have.
Am I planning to preserve enough food to feed a small nation? How many jars does one really need? Apparently the answer is “lots.” But back to my solution: bins.
I think every time I am faced with disorder, I think a bin will solve my problems.
So far, the right bin hasn’t come along to put order to my chaos. But it isn’t for lack of trying.
Some day the Smithsonian will create an exhibit of all the bins that were purchased by stupid people like me in the hopes of achieving organization.
When we all die off due to climate change and aliens come to laugh at our stupidity and to dig through the rubble like anthropologists they will come upon the bins and dog poop bags and understand how it is the human race on Planet Earth is extinct.
They will be surprised we lasted as long as we did.
I wonder if organizational skills attach themselves to a certain gene or combination of genes.
If I had to choose between being taller or organized I would definitely go with organizational attributes. I’ve worked with people who could organize anything and within seconds of joining the team they would have the place shipshape.
(Where exactly does the term shipshape come from? I looked it up and apparently sailors were required to be tidy because of the limited space and turbulence at sea.)
The organizational skills may have been accompanied by a small dose of OCD, but everything comes at a price. I would willingly avoid cracks in the sidewalk if it meant I could organize my kitchen cabinets in a manner that shouted out order, so that I knew instantly where to find what I was looking for.
At the moment I have to stand and close my eyes and try to remember where I put the peanut butter. I’m hoping it comes to me a little more quickly over time.
My grandmother used to come and stay with us at the farm for a month or so when I was little.
She quietly went about whipping things into a semblance of order. The spices were stacked in alphabetical order.
The canned goods in the pantry all had their labels facing forward, the soup with the soup and peas and corn together with the kidney beans. That’s all I can remember.
FYI, I hated canned peas and still do, so if I’m coming for dinner skip the canned peas, I beg of you. Maybe no one eats canned peas any more. Seems wise.
I almost bought more bins today. I came very close, ran my fingers over their smooth edges and tight fitting lids and swooned, but I resisted.
Though, who knows how long I can hold out. It’s a slippery slope. I might reach for the Ziploc bags and before I know it . . .