Listen, I have a problem with letting go. I’m a hoarder, but not of things, no, I’ve whittled my life down to what fits into a modest storage space, plus about 10 boxes of clothes, books, and manuscripts, plus what I can wedge into my car. No kidding. That part has been freeing, although I will tell you if my mother were still around when I was unloading stuff six years ago, she would have threatened to “skin me alive.” (For real, somehow I had ended up with a box containing a pair of her underpants from when she was three years old that had been handmade by my great-grandmother. They were pale pink silk with tatted lace around the leg-holes. My mother was a little hurt that I didn’t want to keep them.)
True Confession: I Hoard
True Confession: I Hoard
True Confession: I Hoard
Listen, I have a problem with letting go. I’m a hoarder, but not of things, no, I’ve whittled my life down to what fits into a modest storage space, plus about 10 boxes of clothes, books, and manuscripts, plus what I can wedge into my car. No kidding. That part has been freeing, although I will tell you if my mother were still around when I was unloading stuff six years ago, she would have threatened to “skin me alive.” (For real, somehow I had ended up with a box containing a pair of her underpants from when she was three years old that had been handmade by my great-grandmother. They were pale pink silk with tatted lace around the leg-holes. My mother was a little hurt that I didn’t want to keep them.)