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Have spent this weekend failing to do all the useful things I planned, mostly because I spent too much time failing to clear out my wardrobe. (Fail squared?) I did manage to part with a grand total of four socks (all so full of large holes they're probably more deserving of the name tubes). Which felt disturbingly like sock-eugenics - 'these socks are of a sufficient socky standard to be paired off neatly together, whereas these are unworthy and must be culled from the herd...' But everything else ended up in the 'might be useful' or 'but I could wear it if...' or 'fashions ~do~ come around again eventually, you know' piles. (It doesn't help that having lost weight I now fit various stored away clothes again, making me all the more reluctant to let go of ~anything~, just in case.) I don't know why I get so attached to inanimate objects - I never have this much trouble parting with useless people.
Will have to go through and try again, as the 'I have far too many clothes' issue is just a single subset of the 'I have far too much STUFF' problem. This isn't just in relation to potentially needing to squeeze the contents of a three-bedroom semi-detached house into a small one-bed London flat. This is the fact that right now I have far too much stuff ~for~ a three-bedroom semi-detached house and keep falling over things and not being able to find keys and trousers and boilers. (Also evidenced by the difficulty I had trying to find a place to spread out the tent to dry - I may end up having to resort to a hairdryer.) So logically, I really do need a drastic, immediate declutter. But the superstitious part of me worries that if I do get organised and ready to move, I'll jinx myself and ~never~ get a job.
Also keep feeling like I am surrounded by people who are way more sorted than I am, and have their lives all worked out. (Which is almost certainly an illusion, but still.) And have just found out that my brother is now engaged, which is wonderful (and all very sweet... despite denying being a geek, he proposed to his girlfriend in the SF Science Museum - where they had their first date - on one knee, with a Lego ring) but also slightly disconcerting. I've always said that I was relieved when my brother met Alice, as it meant he could settle down and marry and have babies and whatever so that I didn't have to. But, same as when my cousin got married, I've ended up with this vague sense of nagging guilt that I'm letting someone down - maybe myself - by not wanting the whole married-with-children bit. Faint melancholy of roads not taken, maybe (which is always worse at this time of year - September always feels like a time for change and new beginnings and running away to sea...)
Mind you, I'm not sure that particular road was ever that appealing. Amongst the many things I keep failing to throw out are the 'secret diaries' I kept at that age when little girls are supposed to dream about their future weddings in pink-and-sparkly princess-bride detail. Apparently nobody told me that. These are full of ambitious architectural drawings of the world's largest treehouse (along with full interior design notes and swatches), maps of imaginary places (that were supposed to be the basis for stories or games that never got invented because the maps were so much more enthralling), plans for the car-that-would-transform-into-a-boat that I'd travel the world in, costume designs for when I grew up to be a superhero (along with obligatory laser gun, lightsaber and rocket ship schematics because, you know, Star Wars) and occasional references to a puppy. But not a single bride in sight. So I'm not entirely sure what that wistful whatever-it-is feeling thinks it's doing hanging around here. Maybe it just got the wrong address? (Or maybe Kris has an old secret diary full of bridesmaid dresses and cake designs stashed away somewhere...)
Of course, it could all just be this week's bout of PMT. Am on double girl duties: a full-on twice-a-month Carrie-strength cycle and, now that I have no festival-shaped distractions, am back to wanting to rip out my insides and burn them. Spoke to the doctor on Tuesday and they ~still~ haven't had the ultrasound results through from the hospital - well over a month now and counting. Have given up on my 'don't just treat the symptoms' stance and am shovelling B-vitamins and iron tablets down my throat like there's no tomorrow. But I could still do with getting some kind of definitive medical advice soon... please?
(Also, it's cold. Fucking freezing, in fact. When did that happen?)
Will have to go through and try again, as the 'I have far too many clothes' issue is just a single subset of the 'I have far too much STUFF' problem. This isn't just in relation to potentially needing to squeeze the contents of a three-bedroom semi-detached house into a small one-bed London flat. This is the fact that right now I have far too much stuff ~for~ a three-bedroom semi-detached house and keep falling over things and not being able to find keys and trousers and boilers. (Also evidenced by the difficulty I had trying to find a place to spread out the tent to dry - I may end up having to resort to a hairdryer.) So logically, I really do need a drastic, immediate declutter. But the superstitious part of me worries that if I do get organised and ready to move, I'll jinx myself and ~never~ get a job.
Also keep feeling like I am surrounded by people who are way more sorted than I am, and have their lives all worked out. (Which is almost certainly an illusion, but still.) And have just found out that my brother is now engaged, which is wonderful (and all very sweet... despite denying being a geek, he proposed to his girlfriend in the SF Science Museum - where they had their first date - on one knee, with a Lego ring) but also slightly disconcerting. I've always said that I was relieved when my brother met Alice, as it meant he could settle down and marry and have babies and whatever so that I didn't have to. But, same as when my cousin got married, I've ended up with this vague sense of nagging guilt that I'm letting someone down - maybe myself - by not wanting the whole married-with-children bit. Faint melancholy of roads not taken, maybe (which is always worse at this time of year - September always feels like a time for change and new beginnings and running away to sea...)
Mind you, I'm not sure that particular road was ever that appealing. Amongst the many things I keep failing to throw out are the 'secret diaries' I kept at that age when little girls are supposed to dream about their future weddings in pink-and-sparkly princess-bride detail. Apparently nobody told me that. These are full of ambitious architectural drawings of the world's largest treehouse (along with full interior design notes and swatches), maps of imaginary places (that were supposed to be the basis for stories or games that never got invented because the maps were so much more enthralling), plans for the car-that-would-transform-into-a-boat that I'd travel the world in, costume designs for when I grew up to be a superhero (along with obligatory laser gun, lightsaber and rocket ship schematics because, you know, Star Wars) and occasional references to a puppy. But not a single bride in sight. So I'm not entirely sure what that wistful whatever-it-is feeling thinks it's doing hanging around here. Maybe it just got the wrong address? (Or maybe Kris has an old secret diary full of bridesmaid dresses and cake designs stashed away somewhere...)
Of course, it could all just be this week's bout of PMT. Am on double girl duties: a full-on twice-a-month Carrie-strength cycle and, now that I have no festival-shaped distractions, am back to wanting to rip out my insides and burn them. Spoke to the doctor on Tuesday and they ~still~ haven't had the ultrasound results through from the hospital - well over a month now and counting. Have given up on my 'don't just treat the symptoms' stance and am shovelling B-vitamins and iron tablets down my throat like there's no tomorrow. But I could still do with getting some kind of definitive medical advice soon... please?
(Also, it's cold. Fucking freezing, in fact. When did that happen?)
