I have a deep dark guilty secret that is so not going to the grave with me. I am a hoarder. Yes. In another life, I would have been certified insane when the stacks of newspapers finally collapsed on me and had me buried under them in a home filled from floor to ceiling with newspaper stacks. Which is why I am careful in this life, careful not to hoard. What it takes out of me, only I know, or any other natural born hoarder would know. I get it from my mother. She still has all my report cards from school and college years. And strangely, from the MIL. She has bits and pieces of wiring that she hopes will be of use, never mind that the entire house is done with concealing wiring these days. Or those odd ends of wool from sweaters for the child which never quite made it to completion, and have long since been outgrown. Or the clothes which are still too good to be thrown out, but not good enough to wear.
I hoard. I am a different kind of hoarder though. I hoard my lipsticks. My shoes. My clothes. And magazines I’ve read years ago and might someday need some reference from in order to make my life complete. Like, some random night, I could be chatting with my spouse and say, “You know what would be perfect right now, enamelled jewellery box with hidden compartments like the one I saw in Vogue issue dated prehistoric times circa the year I was born,” and promptly bound up and dig out the exact issue I speak of, because yes, I have a photographic memory and yes, I organise my junk precisely year by year. Seriously though. Every few months I need to weed out the pile of magazine junk that collects and overflows and multiplies like rabidly sexually active single celled organisms and soon threatens to take over ever storage space including the tiny drawers meant for keeping medicine. Which is good anyway, because I go to the drawer to take out some paracetemol because I am dying of fever, and I see a picture of a handbag on the cover that demands me to get on my knees and worship it now, and all thoughts of being unwell are then promptly forgotten in the red haze of How To Buy It Now that descends over my eyes.
The other day I decided to roll up my sleeves and clear out my make up stash. I found eye pencils from my college days. Rimmel gold and bronze duo side if you’re really asking. And no it doesnt have fungus on it. And I have still been using it. Most recently used some weeks ago. And no, now is not the right time to get at me about the life of a product, because as long as it exists and doesnt kill me I use it.
So what are your hoarding sins?