I came into this world as a confirmed pack rat. I hated to let go of anything that I thought I might want, need or simply die without in the next, oh, fifty years. Thankfully, I was derailed from my path of finding future fame as a star of Hoarders by the simple act of moving out of my parents’ house and into my first apartment. An entire zoo’s worth of stuffed animals and every book I ever owned were simply not going to fit into a 500-square foot studio.
I am still a zealous convert to the Church of Our Lady of Decluttering. I love the feeling of lightness after discarding useless kitchen gadgets (RIP electric mango peeler) and hideous articles of clothing that I’d like to think I bought while under the influence of psychedelic drugs (nope, I just had reeallly bad taste). And I almost never regret getting rid of things.
Except when it comes to my writing.
Full disclosure: I am a show tune-loving geek. I think It’s
because they are so colorful, dramatic and unapologetically
over-the-top…qualities I long to display when I’m feeling stagnant, stuck and
small. The times when I allow myself to feel trapped by circumstances and
wonder if I should just get “STATUS QUO” stamped on my forehead and call it a
And while I am exceedingly grateful for the life I live, I
gotta be honest: this is the emotional limbo I’ve been in for the past few
weeks. I had imperceptibly slid down the proverbial rabbit hole of thinking
that just maybe I could be okay with
less than I’d dreamed of. I mean, life
is about compromise, right? Even Mick Jagger said, “You can’t always get what
But because God has a sense of humor (and I have satellite
radio with a Broadway channel), I was given a much-needed moment of
enlightenment via a flying witch with a five-octave range.
I am a great one to tout the wisdom of “eating the elephant one bite at a time.” And in more rational moments, I actually follow that sage advice. Unfortunately, when things hit the fan I tend to revert to my old habit of looking the proverbial pachyderm square in the eye and attempting to shove the whole thing in my mouth at once.
Our recently completed move to Cleveland, Ohio had me in that exact space. And quite frankly, still has me there on more days than I care to admit.
I am officially done with my slavish monitoring of the diet and healthcare pendulum. In the space of a week, I’ve learned that drinking too much water can kill me and that I’ll live longer if I stop waging war on my love handles and embrace those proverbial “last ten pounds.” As I sat contemplating whether I should cut back on the Evian and start considering Ding Dongs to be a primary food group, I received two e-mails from well meaning friends on the subject of folate. Being that this vitamin is part of the B-complex formula that I take daily, I was interested in hearing the latest findings. But my curiosity rapidly turned to confusion when I learned that apparently this innocent little substance could either a) help me prevent hypertension, heart disease and stroke, or b) cause a rapid decline in my mental capacity once I reached retirement age. Great. I can keep my heart pumping healthfully into my golden years, only to forget what I’m doing when I get there.