The Unpacked Suitcase

    Been back for a couple days now but my suitcase still sits open on our bedroom floor, waiting for me to unpack it. I can't. 

    I don't know where to put the stuff in it until I move a bunch of other stuff somewhere else. But I'm not sure where to move that stuff yet (is there anywhere?). So consequently, I haven't done anything. I've noticed my husband eyeing my suitcase nervously, afraid to comment, I would think.           

    He knows as well as I, of course, that I'm the kind of person who unpacks immediately when they get home, an organized soul. At least I used to be.

    In our old house, the one we were so lucky to have sold, we had put in a walk-in closet, so it was a cinch to unpack. Took five minutes. Room to put everything. Summer and winter clothes divided.

    Here, we're stuffed into three closets in two rooms together. Our winter coats don't fit anywhere so we bought some hooks and hung them all by the front door. My husband took his big bulky winter coat to his locker at work.  More than half of our stuff is in storage.

   We have a spare room so the boys can come and stay, but that's where two of the overflowing closets are, so I better tell them that when they do come, it'll be better if they just come naked.

    I threw away so much stuff when we left our house. I donated bags and bags of stuff. And I'm not a woman with a lot of clothes actually. Or shoes. My girlfriends will attest to that. 

    And although I'm loathe to admit it, this flat has pretty decent closets -- for England. Boy could it be worse. I can't even describe to you how much worse it could be.

    Okay, so I'm an ugly American who likes closet space. Who's used to closet space. And I'm a 55-year-old woman who's lived in her own house for a long time, who's collected things, who's inherited things from her dead parents, who's raised two kids who also had things. 

    I admit it. Shoot me now.

    Am I just too old for this?