Label this marriage ‘conflicted’
I’m armed and I’m told, dangerous.
No thing, no person is safe.
Hello, my name is Daryn and I’m a recovering slob.
Perhaps, “lazy clutterer” is a better label.
Speaking of labels, Husband says this is the problem.
The messy beginning
We begin with the mess.
First there was me. I passed my lack of tidiness off to being single for so long.
Then, there was Husband. Surely, getting married would be the answer to pulling things together.
Not really.
We’re messy in different ways. I leave things lying around. Husband is a big drawer shover.
This has meant no space in our small house has been safe from mess.
Throw in two daughters and there have been times I expected some reality show to come knocking on our front door to save the day.
A fresh start
The answer, for me at least, has been our new house. It is bigger. The grown daughters don’t live here, and most of all, it is a fresh start.
I’ve been following influencers on Instagram. They show how to sort, organize and put everything in its place.
More stuff to contain our stuff
I bought boxes of their clear containers.
Husband didn’t see the logic. “Why are you bringing more stuff into the house, when we haven’t put away the stuff we have?”
Only, he used a word starting with “s” but not as nice as “stuff.”
I let my organizing dance speak for me.
My new bff
This is where the labeler came in.
Everything gets a label.
The decanted flour, sugar, cornmeal.
The AAA batteries tucked next to the properly labeled AA’s.
I hold that little machine in my hands, type the name I want, and push, “Print.”
It makes the cutest murmur sound. Like a little drummer boy. My heart skips a beat each time. Have you felt this rush, Dear Reader?
Husband has become concerned, not missing an opportunity to point out the silliness of my pursuit.
“Why do you have one container for ‘Daryn’s contact lenses’ and another for ‘Daryn’s Left contact lenses?’”
“I made the label for the container thinking it would hold all my lenses. When it didn’t, I made a new label for the left ones and kept the old generic label for the right,” I explained.
It is this kind of logic that reinforces Husband’s theory that he’s married to the funniest woman in America.
Just because I’m getting neat, doesn’t mean Husband wants to come along for the ride.
The same high I’m getting from seeing something in its proper clear container space is the one he gets from the ease of just shoving something in a drawer.
I ceded the territory of his home office space to him. Mortgage documents, medical bills, boat supplies, fishing lures. He can shove them into drawers and closets to his Oscar the Grouch trashcan delight.
This is turning out to be an excellent tactic.
“Maybe you can help me organize my stuff bit?” he said in passing yesterday.
Absolutely.
Label me, “Armed and ready to go!”
While you’re here…
If you like this story, you might enjoy my book,
