My husband and I might move. (Then again, we might not.) As we spend more and more time in our house, thanks to pandemic work-from-home mandates, we see its flaws, and we dream of perfection: A half-acre yard for the dogs. A bathroom on the main level for us. More sun for the garden. A street that doesn't have UPS trucks rattling past every 10 minutes — that one would be for all of us.
But the idea of moving is daunting, because, like most people in America, we have too much stuff. I look around the house and the thought of packing it all up exhausts me.
The answer is to downsize. To start, I can probably get rid of my work clothes, since who knows when I will ever again work somewhere other than my dining-room table. And when I do go back to the newsroom, the "COVID 15" (pounds) might necessitate a new wardrobe anyway.
I can probably get rid of most of my shoes, too, since these days I wear fuzzy slippers in the house and sneakers on the dog walks and I don't go anywhere else. All my funky boots and cute ballet flats could be donated.
But clothing and shoes do not take up a lot of room. They fit in a closet. You shut the closet door. Clutter is gone.
Except for all the other clutter. Which is, in our house, books.
Books! Books are everywhere. Neatly slotted onto bookcases and bookshelves — and then piled horizontally on top. Stacked on dining room chairs, kitchen table, bedside tables and de facto bedside table (the floor). Stacks of books stacked on top of stacks of books.
Thousands. We have thousands of books.