Here’s my question. When do ‘cute little quirks’ stop being
cute, and turn into full-blown middle-aged madness.
Yesterday I saw it in my Wingman’s eyes as he watched me
prune a bush. There was neither judgement nor amusement, just the look of
someone who had realised I probably shouldn’t be allowed to
use a pair of pruning sheers.
My cute little quirk (problem) is that I hate stuff. I don’t
think that there’s a name for people like me, but I consider myself to be an
anti-hoarder, or the opposite of a packrat. I’m not nearly interesting enough
to have my own reality sho, but it’s becoming a bit of an issue.
I can’t bear to have any non-essentials getting in my way.
That goes for furniture, clothes, house wares, files, guests, make-up, words,
and body hair. The only thing I like in excess is food and wine, and that’s
because it’s temporary. Vacuuming? I can’t get enough of it. Same goes for weeding, getting unused contacts off my phone, and clipping my nails. If I can make it dissappear - I will!
It was sort of quirky and adorable when I had my first
apartment. My friends would laugh about my minimalist approach to furnishing and
the boxes of books I used as side table for almost a decade. Fast forward twenty years, and my closet only has 36’ of hanging clothes. I can’t stand having clothing that hangs
there for absolutely no reason. When I stop loving something, it has to
go. I also have a permanent
donation bag on the go for the moment when something suddenly becomes
loathsome. Every day is potential purge-o-rama.
I am particularly intolerant of anything that looks
medical-y or bandage-y, and recently tore the house apart like a lunatic determined
to get rid of reminders of illness. (This is slightly illogical since I have
nipples coming up – but I’m anticipating a low maintenance recovery).
 |
| Buddha, and formerly round bush |
At any point poor Jim might come home with a new something-or-other and place it timidly in front of me. We both look at it. ‘Can you stand having it here?’ he asks. We look at each other and I counter with, ‘Do we need it?’ There is an uncomfortable
silence as we each explore our levels of agitation. And 8/10 times it goes back out the door. To me, the most
beautiful sight in the world is a bare table, though flowers are okay.
This weekend I was enjoying cleaning up the small front
garden. We have a jolly round yellow bush the size of a five year old, which had
taken a beating over the winter. It was bulgy and misshapen and was leaning on
my little Buddha. So I began my first foray into topiary. I cut of a few
branches. And I cut of a few more. Delighted by the debulging, I turned
into Edward Scissorhands and began attacking the little bush in frenzy of blurred
blades. Every snip was wildly satisfying!
I was so happy I could barely breath.
I was diving in for a final cut when a shadow fell over the
bush and I looked up to see Jim standing over me. He stood for a moment with
his hands on his hips. He looked at the once chubby bush, and I knew that what
I had done no longer adorable. I’d crossed into madness territory, feeling thrilled
and guilty all at the same time. Jim looked at me as one might look at a child who’d just
rubbed a bottle of ketchup into their hair.
‘Uh oh,’ he said, gently wrestling the sheers from my hands,
‘No more pruning for you.’
