It’s amazing how one’s focus changes overnight with retirement. I’m sitting in my office going through the files and papers I brought home from school with me. I’m thinking to myself, “Why did I even bring that home?” And the piece of paper goes directly into the recycling bin.
Yes, they were gems when I first created those lessons, and they’re still eminently teachable. But will I ever teach them again? Unlikely, so into the bin they go. It’s really sad that I’m triaging to triage my piles of stuff. I have a pile of papers that need to be filed, but before I can actually file them, I need to move the boxes of stuff that are in front of the file drawer. You see where I’m going with this.
And how does one lose an ironing board? We have two in the house, his and hers. His stays downstairs in the man cave and mine is upstairs where my clothes actually reside. Yes, it’s probably a misnomer to call it a man cave when several nights a week there’s a lot of man-ironing going on in it, but still… Where’s my upstairs ironing board? I’m afraid it’s underneath an aforementioned pile of stuff.
No, I’m not a hoarder. Not yet. I’m just the somewhat unfortunate recipient of lots of family treasures that I haven’t had the time to sort through. The articles all say to make four piles: keep, throw out, donate, sell. I am doing that; I promise. It’s just a little more difficult than the TLC and HGTV shows make it look.
So on Day Three, I have made a dent. Well, maybe a ding, but it’s better than I’ve done for months. By the end of the day, I’ll be able to see the floor in that part of my office. Embarrassing to tell, but the unfettered and uncensored truth is going to be my new normal. Thanks for not judging me too harshly.