•••When does fun turn into collecting turn into hoarding?•••
“You are a clothes hoarder!” My husband’s words a week ago were startling because I’ve watched with disbelief the program Hoarders. Certainly not me. It was his emphasis on the word “hoarder” that got my attention, AND he wasn’t laughing.
My name is Carol and I have a problem. More accurately, though, I am a thrift store junkie. There are treasures hidden in those little shops downtown you know. Most travelers can’t wait to see new and spectacular sights, but the first thing on my mind is to ask the desk clerk where the best thrift shop is. Then, bam, it’s on the itinerary.
[Before I go any further, a disclaimer is in order. It’s paining me to even write about the issue of clothing, but this obscene accumulation is starting to pain me even more. Weeding has to start somewhere.]
The lure of treasure hunting hooked me long ago. The same “what if” factor that keeps lottery players, gamers and gamblers going back for more has kept me stuffing my closet for 20 years. I see my husband’s point. His share is half a closet.
Choosing “Thrifting” as a hobby keeps a tight budget in check, but it’s that low cost that keeps a body coming back for more. The trouble is you can’t keep adding to the pile without subtracting — at least in a small home. There’s only so much a closet can hold, no matter how tightly you jam the hangers together. In my home, sardines couldn’t be closer.
Which brings me to the time of reckoning — change of season. This critical mass now has to be moved to make room for warm weather wear, but with the label “hoarder” in mind, I’m weeding out my closet garden. And in this cozy little home the keepers have to go in plastic bins under the bed until the temperatures cool down again.
I’m the opposite of a hoarder in every other way, and although my husband was being playful when he attached the word to me, I took it seriously and sprang into action. Ten pieces in the donation box so far, 99 to go!