There’s a lot of discussion lately about divisiveness in our country. In my calmer moments, I try to think about commonalities instead of differences. But I admit, there are some significant distinctions within our population. For example, there are dog people and then there are people who can watch a movie on television and have the entire couch to themselves. I understand that there are tidy housekeeping folks who can remove their couch cushions and not recoil at what is underneath them. I’ve heard that a select group of individuals take their cars in for service as soon as the electronic notification appears.
I suspect that with a lot of thoughtful conversation, these disparate groups could find common ground or at least some level of understanding. But humans are also divided in ways that are difficult to reconcile; for example, some of us have storage units and others do not. I used to belong to the latter group, and I was incredulous that people would pay a monthly fee, for years, to store belongings they didn’t even remember they had. Of course, I used to have a large house with endless storage. Now I have a medium-sized house, and my ability to throw things out seems to have diminished.
My storage unit has holiday decorations, old family photographs, and travel memorabilia. I’ve become the family keeper of all things difficult to part with, from children’s baseball jerseys to delightful school essays, and award certificates of various kinds. I’m not willing to part with my kids’ Legos, for example. (In hindsight, I wish I had put that investment into Bitcoin, instead.)
We’re a sentimental bunch, us storage unit aficionados. We’re bound together by a complex mixture of emotion, attachment, nostalgia, and probably a healthy dose of procrastination, as well. Boxing, labelling, and storing items allows us to avoid the discomfort of making decisions about them. We suffer no cognitive regret about keeping our collections because we promise ourselves that we will, in the future, sort and make rational decisions about them.
This mental sleight of hand reminds me of my past relationship with exercise. I would tell myself that I would start exercising regularly next Monday or after my vacation or after the holidays, thereby giving myself permission to not exercise today. Promising myself that I would start exercising regularly confirmed my belief that I cared deeply about getting fit. But it also gave me license to loll around for days on end.
The only way to break out of that disingenuous cycle was to develop a daily exercise habit. It allowed me to get fit and stay fit without internal dialogue. It eliminated exercise dilemmas and decision making, and I’m eternally grateful for that.
So, perhaps I need to exercise some tough love and clean out my storage unit starting tomorrow. At least I could break the cycle of pretending I was going to do it “someday.”
Anybody need a macramé belt made by a 10-year-old?