We’ve all got stuff. Big stuff, little stuff, every day stuff, every now and then stuff and stuff we’ve forgotten we own. So. Much. Stuff. Today I decided to wrangle the stuff, stuff, stuff and nonsense in my bathroom.
The first thing I discovered was that the shelves in my bathroom cabinet have an almost limitless depth and a Tardis like capacity for holding bags, tubs and containers filled with stuff.
And dust. Cough.
Duly mortified by the state of my cupboard, I wheeled this Tardis-Extension-Unit into my bedroom and proceeded to disgorge the contents on to my bed. It wasn’t pretty.
Necklaces that I haven’t worn in years, which I remember jamming into a plastic bag maybe six months ago and then instantly forgetting; binned. Why didn’t I just throw them out then? I’m a mystery.
Earrings that weren’t even fashionable when I bought them 10 or 15 years ago; binned. Sweet relief.
Tubes of mystery beauty products I’ve never used; binned.
Ear syringe supplies; binned.
Lipsticks from boldest red to a ghastly hue called “Heather Shimmer”; binned.
On and on it went.
As I sorted, I began to feel embarrassed.
Why did I have ALL. THIS. STUFF? Drawer after drawer of USELESS CRAP all neatly jammed into my exceedingly small ensuite.
A completely forgotten hair straightener, which I think I used three or four times. Binned.
Every mini hotel bottle of shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, plus all the combs, sewing kits, shaving kits, and soaps that I ever got within 4 feet of, binned.
I think I found about half a dozen mini tubes of toothpaste. I kept those, they’re handy!
Old nail brush, out it went.
Old hairbrush, gone to the great salon in the sky.
Loofahs, manky nail files, dental floss I bought before we’d ever heard the name Barack Obsma… all tossed in the trash.
One bag. Two bags. Three bags.
Then I started on the tub of almost empty, almost full, almost gave me a migraine, almost endless varieties of shampoos and conditioners I’d squirrelled away under the bathroom vanity. Down the sink and then rinsed out, out they went, bottle after bottle.
Four bags. Five bags. Six.
That feeling again. Embarrassed. A bit ashamed of myself for not realising how much stuff I’d accumulated, quietly, stealthily.
I often roll my eyes at the hoarding habits of some of my nearest and dearest. Don’t worry, I’m not going to out any of you! Today I thought to myself, I’m cut from the same cloth. Ahem. This is awkward.
Eventually, my Tardis-Extension-Unit stood empty, dusty and defeated. I may take it apart altogether or give it a good wash then use it to hold art supplies, but it will never go back in my ensuite!
Three empty drawers and all that remains from the contents of my TEU. I have had the woven basket under the cotton buds for years and years. I love it, but I don’t need it. It hasn’t gone in the bin, yet.
Just one of the bags I filled, knotted tightly and toted out to the rubbish bin today. I don’t wear make-up more than a few times a year, yet I still had all this STUFF, taking up valuable real estate in my small house. That leaves me scratching my head.
All that remains, of the make-up at least. It’s more than I need.
Things have such a hold on us, don’t they?
Some things are precious, tied to special memories or people we love. Some things tied to such memories are still plastic crap that we imbue with value they’ll never have. You’d think the difference would be clear, wouldn’t you?
As I went through those drawers today, I picked through a silver bag of pretty pink boxes. I scooped those boxes up during my first stay at a four star hotel. I’ve done that three times now and I’m not even 50. Talk about well travelled!
That hotel stay was an indulgent treat to myself many Christmas Eves ago. I don’t need that sewing kit to remember it, or to recall the view of the city and the river shimmering at night, or the cocktails I drank with a girlfriend in the dimly lit, glamorous bar. As they say in the classics, I’ll always have Melbourne.
Logically, I know I don’t need things to hold memories, but that silver bag of pink boxes, adorned in fancy cursive script with the hotel name have languished in a drawer for many, many Christmases. Not anymore.
I want less in my life. I truly do.
Less excess, less stuff and a lot less nonsense.
Less time spent organising belongings that don’t serve any purpose.
Less discarded lipsticks and long forgotten earrings.
Less books I’m no longer interested in.
Less almost discarded stuff. I seem to be quite good at phase one of decluttering.
{Note to self: make sure the bags of clothes that recently moved from hangers to bags under my bed actually leave the premises sometime soon!}
Less shoes.
Less stuff without value.
I want less.
And I want more in my life.
More breathing space. More ease, more physical space in the limited space that I have.
More room for simply being, for making art, for welcoming friends, and for my sweet young nieces and nephews to spread out when they visit.
More kitchen bench space so I can cook more good food with less sodium.
More of what matters.
I want more.
Maybe the trick is being less attached to, and more mindful about, the stuff and the nonsense of life.
I know this for sure, I won’t be on my deathbed wishing that I still owned a lipstick called Heather Shimmer or a plastic comb from a fancy hotel.
I’ll never be a streamlined, monochrome, does-anybody-actually-live-here minimalist, but I’d like to get closer to that end of the spectrum than I am right now.
Are you a master of de-cluttering? Teach me your ways.
What’s your theory about the sewing kits and shampoos? I’d love to know.
Dustily,
Annette x
I Give You The Verbs 