I wasn’t even throwing the stuff away. It was going to Goodwill. Deseret Industries. The thrift store… whatever. Blessing the less fortunate (although what they are going to do with some really short tuxedo pants, three Ralph’s uniforms and a really skinny boy scout uniform, I don’t know. But I don’t care.) While I hate straightening and organizing with a white-hot passion, sometimes it has to be done.I am actually fine with sorting and tossing. But that is because I was not born with that gene. You know the one. It causes one to feel mild discomfort throwing away anything made of paper. If the item is made of something slightly more substantial, such as cardboard, rotting food or photo paper, the discomfort is greatly intensified. Throwing away anything made of cloth, glass, leather or wood is physically impossible. It is like trying to escape earth’s gravity. Jump as high as you can… you are still going to come crashing down. Remember Imelda Marcos? When she and Ferdinand were exiled from the Phillipines in 1986, she was said to have left behind 15 mink coats, 508 gowns, 888 handbags and 1060 pairs of shoes. Okay, so she had an underlying problem. Newsweek recently cited her as being one of the “Most Greedy People of All Time.” But face it, the woman could not throw anything away (and is it me? or does it look like she forgot to remove the cardboard inserts from her sleeves?)
I figured out Skippy got the gene. He inherited it from DK. I learned a long time ago that if I am going to throw anything away, I have to wait until DK goes out of town. Or slip it into the trash right before the trash collector comes around. I have found him pulling stuff out that I have thrown away on numerous occasions. Just last week I tried to throw away an archaic piece of computer equipment. I thought it was gone. Nope. I just tripped over in the side yard this morning. He is sly, that one. This morning in the course of doing laundry, I took a good look at what passes for his “casual wardrobe.” It is not good. Honey, the 80’s called. They said they don’t even want any of that stuff back. You know how when you see some guy in line at the grocery store with a scruffy beard and long hair wearing work boots and a beer belly hanging over really short cutoffs, and you set your groceries down next to his egg salad and tallboy Budweiser and think, “Oh, that poor guy. Not married. If he had a wife, she would never let him leave the house in that.” Yeah. It’s like that. I think it’s time for some new jeans, DK. I have thrown away the old ones, and I defy you to find them.
So Saturday I kicked two white trash bags down the stairs. They were full of outgrown clothing. Like I said from the beginning, they were not going to the trash, but to the thrift store. Skippy spotted them, and began running his hands over the outside of the bags. I gave one another good kick toward the door. And then I noticed that Skippy was fighting back tears. Surprised, I asked him, “What’s the matter, bud? Are we giving away something you really wanted to keep?” I’m not a monster, for goodness’ sake. It is not like I was trying to give away his favorite blankie or something. “Uh-huh,” he nodded. “Well, what is it, Skip?” At this point, he burst into tears and buried his head in my leg. “I don’t know!” he sobbed. “I can’t see what’s in there!”
So I live with collectors. What do you collect? Here is my missionary board, with all the missionaries I have collected over the past few years...
P.S. As with all my photos, click to enlarge!
(Unless the photo is of my FACE)
(Unless the photo is of my FACE)
