There Must Be Something in the Air (and It's Not Pollen)

I don’t know what’s going on with the planets right now—maybe Mercury’s retrograde is doing cartwheels, or Mars has its warrior pants on—but I cannot sit still. I’ve been bouncing around the house like a human Roomba with a short attention span. Solar flares? Full moon? Mercury caught in traffic? Whatever it is, I’m buzzing.

A humanoid Roomba

Once upon a time—not that long ago—I could finish work, eat a nice lunch, and then fall face-first into YouTube for an hour. Or two. Or until it was time to make dinner and pretend like I hadn’t just watched a dozen videos about how to declutter a house I already decluttered last spring.

Not anymore.

Now I’m a woman possessed. If I’m not working the job that actually pays me, I’m working on the job that still hasn’t taken flight (not enough air in the balloon, maybe—but the basket’s looking great). Or writing about another brain worm that just won’t stop zipping around and needs to be put on paper - so to speak. Or I’m elbow deep in the junk drawer. I simply can’t seem to sit still!

Now, let me be clear: this house is not guest-ready. It’s not even me ready. Every time I start organizing one thing, I get distracted by another thing that’s equally important and somehow louder.

Like, I’ll open a drawer to tidy it up and—bam!—I find something I haven’t seen in years. So obviously, I need to stop and inspect that. Reminisce about the last time I used it. Who was I with and what were we doing? Hearken back to the good times. Do I really want to part with this wonderful piece of nostalgia? I fully realize that if I haven’t used something in a year, I’m supposed to throw it out, but, come on, memories. We keep photos, don’t we? Why not random hair clips that remind us of echoes of the past?

Then I remember the drawer. Get back to it. Until something else jumps out and yells, “Hey! Remember me?”

At some point, I dump half a closet onto the bed with the full intention of getting it into Good Will bags. Hours later, it’s still there. The sun’s down. I’m brushing my teeth, glaring at the mountain of fabric now blocking my path to sleep.

And this isn’t a perfectionist thing, although I am a bit of a perfectionist about select things. Okay, more than a bit. I can be a downright pain in the pattooty about the things that I think are important, which are nearly always the things that no one else thinks are important. So, yeah, I ruffle feathers. Hey, they have their things, too!

But, really, I’m not all that obsessive. I’m not polishing light switches. Well yes—I can fold fitted sheets. Into squares, even. Or rough squares. I never understood why people act like it's an Olympic event. But I’m not smug about it. It’s hard to be smug about a skill you avoid for weeks. Sure, I can do it. I just don’t like to. (And between us, I think that’s the real reason most people “can’t.” Shh.)

Now don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not out here hoarding unmatched socks or lip balm from the Bush administration. Oh no. I don’t do chaos in those areas. My socks are more organized than some people’s taxes, and I go through lip balm like it’s hand sanitizer in an airport restroom—or Axe body spray in a high school locker room. There’s never enough. I’ve got one in every room and a subscription on standby.

And YouTube? I haven’t seen a single video about decluttering a house. That’s not my lane. My lane is DNA solved cold cases, Neanderthal discoveries, and British kids reacting to Pop-Tarts. It’s young folks discovering Fleetwood Mac like it just dropped yesterday. It’s Greg Gutfeld making me snort coffee.

So no, I’m not running a Better Homes cover shoot over here.

But I am in motion. Spiraling. Sporadically productive. Occasionally confused. Always carrying a lip balm.

Whatever’s in the air? I hope it sticks around long enough for me to clear the bed.