Closets and hidden hypocrisy

Categorical statements and I have a long and occasionally problematic relationship. They tend to make a liar out of me. I resent them fully and yet have not figured out how to get them out of my life.

I found four pairs of high heels today as I was organizing the closet in my office. It was an immediate thought that I would need to issue some kind of retraction to a statement I made in my last blog entry lest I be called out.

Defensive, much? Bitter, many? I can't think of a non-platonic relationship that I've had where we both were not almost perpetually under an ill-fitting microscope. It is a response that I've earned, this anger and bitter.

But it is dull. And it gets nothing done. And it takes up space in the closet.

Friendships take so much time to build that there is no way to go forward without putting a label to something like an inconsistency and moving on. When you can see nothing but those labels, look elsewhere, and don't be too discouraged if someone else does the same. It is not possible to be everyone's beloved.

It is, however, possible to be beloved of your own closet. Which means that the denim capris that make me look like a model in Women's Edition will have to go. As well as the >shorts< ooo, those are not okay.

Not gonna wear it, don't keep it around, right? Not gonna love it, why worry whether you like it or not? Space is at a premium in this world. No need to take up too much.

Although, I do have this brilliant idea for keeping the broken down boxes from getting ew-y and filled with insecty things and too much gross: I will stand them up on their folded ends, supported between shelves or posts or filled boxes, and I will wrap them in a tarp, to keep whatever it is that might just move into the dry and warm attic from making a home in the things that will hold the guts of my home when it comes time to figure out just what that means. Again.

I interact with the stuff of my life, these nerve-endings in shoes and empty boxes cringe every moment, my fingers shake with the case cutter in them, ready to slice open something else, some other internal organ holding only it knows what. Every box could be marked Pandora and it would be less of a Greek Drama. My days begin in a line of fire over the trees out of my window and end in a pool of blood from my own caustic roaming. I wish every day for the this to be done. For something to settle into itself and become the thing called 'How I live'. And yet, much is in the wrong place, much is in no place yet, there are still unopened boxes that much be faced. The ones called "Storage" are for the next life, the next home. I forget how tiring it is to do this. I forget to wash my hands and rub my feet. I forget to always be gentle. I forget to require clarity.

I kept one pair of the high heels. I wore them in a wedding 5 years ago. If I never wear them again, I don't really care. They are a part of my past that I love.