faster than a diet, cheaper than a face lift

Every now and again, to keep the spice in married life, I lose my shit. The triggers are many and unexpected: a pile of shoes that I've tripped on once too often, maybe. A pile of bills. A messy drawer. Basically, anywhere you turn in our somewhat disorganized life, a potential trigger sits dormant, waiting. When it happens, there will be no mistake: The voice goes shrill. The hands flail about in the air. The husband's eyes become as wide as dinner plates. And then quick and decisive action.

This time, it was the hall closet. Let me splain: The hall closet was one of the things I was most excited about when we mortgaged our souls to live here. It's the walk-in variety, with three--THREE!--rows for hanging clothes, an assortment of shelves, and the kind of depth that would be of service if you were the sort to hide a dead body in a trunk somewhere. But instead of rotting corpses, we hide unused rugs, outgrown shoes, unwanted clothes, and dusty notes from long-ago law-school classes that were probably never interesting in the first place. Like gremlins left alone after midnight with a bottle of growth hormones and a water cooler to wash them down with, these items seem to grow and multiply in a way nature never intended and I don't fully understand.

So. There I was: Staring into the dusty piles of junk, needing to retrieve a pair of mittens, but afraid to venture in for fear of my personal safety. Someone could be lurking in the closet's darkest corners, waiting to stuff me in a trunk, and with all the piles of unworn fleeces muffling my screams, no one would hear my cries. So I lost it. There might have been some yelling, even some bad words used. I think I saw the dog take leave and head for the relative safety of the bathtub. The husband looked scared--terrified, even. And I'm pretty sure I lost my cool.

But then--then!--we threw crap away. And it felt great. This morning, I hauled the last of the six shopping bags to Goodwill. And this afternoon, my soul feels lighter and my jeans are less tight. I know where my mittens are, and if Burton has 17 ski jackets that he doesn't wear, at least they're confined to his ski bag. Sure, I couldn't quite part with the armadillo candle, but you have to save something for next time, right?

I have since decided, by the way, that our next house will have no closets--because what do you put in closets except shit you don't want but can't stand to throw away? Ok, maybe the winter coats can stay. That's all I need. The winter coats and the remote control. And this paddle-ball game. All I need are the winter coats, this remote control, the paddle-ball game, and this lamp and this ashtray...