After deciding I was having a crisis of executive functioning, I went on a declutter spree. The “crisis of executive functioning” part means I’m beginning to feel as if at any moment I may spontaneously forget every important thing I need to get done, and the kitchen clutter wasn’t helping matters. I can’t remember to do the things I can’t see.
“Decluttering” will be defined as “wading through piles of paper crap my children and the mailman deposit in my house and which I put onto the kitchen counter to sort later,” and we’ll define “later” as “never.”
With all that defined, you can envision me one morning with a cardboard box at my feet, rooting through every piece of paper on that counter and tossing it, a slice at a time, into the box of recyclables. Many of these “To be done later” tasks actually did not need to be done at all, or were accomplished without a piece of paper. So now that they’re done composting, they can go away to be reincarnated as another useless reminder notice.
I felt great about my progress until I came across a sympathy card.
I don’t stockpile cards, preferring to drive myself crazy by purchasing them on an as-needed basis. Therefore we can assume I purchased a sympathy card because someone was in need of sympathy “at this terrible time.” Except my intended recipient of sympathy never received it because it’s here on my counter.
Worse? I have no idea whom it was for.
So…I’m sorry. Whoever you are. I’m sorry I was unsympathetic and I hope you aren’t holding it against me that your broken heart got piled next to the third reminder notice that I needed to send a carton of juice boxes to my first grader’s classroom on Thursday.
And after that I stopped excavating my counter. It’s stupid, but I hate to uncover a broken heart, especially when I don’t remember whose it was.