All I Want Is A Little Attention

That's all.

On the second day of spring, I'm thinking about spring cleaning. Should I or shouldn't I tackle the nightmare that is my closet? Last time I spring-cleaned my closet, please don't ask me when, it was probably more of a winter purge, I'm sure I vowed never to let it get this cluttered again. But here I am, confessing that my closet, the place where I suspend clothes in disbelief, never to find them again, needs attention. There are shoes I can no longer wear, relatively newish shoes at that, because they are torture devices on my battered feet. There are pants I can no longer wear because they no longer work with my current anatomy. There are miscellaneous items that need attention. An old breakfast tray. An old heating pad. An assortment of throw pillows I should've tossed. This closet of mine is fully Freudian. It's my past, my present and my future as a guest star on "Short-Order Hoarders of Sherman Oaks." It's my id, my ego, my super ego. It's everything and nothing. And yet, unless some highly skilled organizer does an emergency closet intervention, my sanity hangs in the balance. I'm forever defined by an existential dilemma: Who came first? The SJG or the closet? Your guess is as good as mine.