Lenawee Smiles | Surviving decluttering takes trash bags, a plastic tub and lunch

It strikes about every six months, this vague idea that I should tackle my office once more to rid it of utility bill receipts from 1973, postcards whose signature inks blurred years ago and stacks of paper I’ve accumulated. I cannot prove it but I suspect this catering to organization finds its roots in a confluence of several things: the mating call of some unidentified bird in a remote part of the Amazon rainforest, an obscure but mighty turbulence in the Indian Ocean that will take years to surface and the price of eggs.

I throw everything on my desk, the tops of bookcases and tables into a plastic tub, grab several trash bags and head for the family room. There is a television set, a recliner and a small side table there on which I can put a soft drink. It can sit next to the TV remote and my telephone. Surely you do not think I can go into this dark place without entertainment and sustenance?

I set up another table in front of me and open up two trash bags. One is for trash. The other one is for Goodwill. I am a hoarder of office supplies: legal pads, notebooks, more pads, sticky notes, smaller lined pads and dozens of pens. A good 90% of those things should be donated.

I also put a cardboard box to the side for that which should be shredded.

Perhaps I should have lunch before I tackle this job. I carefully step over the bags and box and step into the tub of papers. Arms flailing, I grab the back of the chair to avoid a fall, step out and head for the kitchen. Choices. This is difficult. I rarely eat lunch.

Why am I eating it today? Is this avoidance behavior? Probably.

Peanut butter, sweet pickle slices, mayo on wheat bread and a glass of almond milk.

Two cookies. Some tortilla chips. A cupcake. Ice water. I remove the stapler, tape and paper clips from the table to put the lunch tray down.

It is now 2:30 p.m. I’ve finished lunch and the credits are rolling for “Casablanca.” I cannot prolong this job any longer.

First batch of yellowed papers: legalese saying the mortgage issued in 1966 had been satisfied, and the shoebox purchased was ours. We had sold that shoebox a couple of decades ago. Those pages had no sentimental or historical value, but I read the whole boring thing and dumped it. I pick up a slick brochure dated 1986 pushing walk-in bathtubs. I toss it away before I read the disclaimers at the bottom regarding slip-and-fall issues.

I continue to purge this mass of paper then run across a small red book: “How to Survive in the Wilderness.” Is this a message? I open it to a random page to find that if I am in a situation without water, here are some suggestions.

1. Catch a fish and suck the moisture from around its eyes.

I re-read that. If I could catch a fish, would it not come from a stream, river or creek? Judicious care might allow you to drink that water. Just the idea of sucking fish eyes is so repulsive … I could feel peanut butter and pickles starting an upward march.

2. Tie rags around your ankles and walk through grass at dawn to catch dew.

That would be a possibility if I could make my fellow traveler give up his shirt for rags — mine would be a designer item, after all.

3. Catch rain water in pots, pans or … typing paper.

If lost in the wilderness, I doubt I would be toting kitchen ware or typing paper.

I had to set the book aside because it was nearly 4 p.m. and time to check my email. I had a trash bag half filled, the box looked promising, and I had some folders labeled. I threw a tarp over my project and headed for my computer.

It felt as though I had run a 10k or been engaged in a serious congressional debate (if there are any — serious ones, that is).

I looked around my office and felt immense despair. What was all this? It didn’t look any different. Had I not taken a heavy tub full of nonsense to the other end of the house? Had I not spent time sorting, reviewing, dumping, eating and weeping as Ilsa asked Sam to play “As Time Goes By?”

Here was a wilderness! How could I survive in it? There must be a fish in here somewhere…

Susan Keezer lives in Adrian. Send your good news to her at lenaweesmiles@gmail.com.

This article originally appeared on The Daily Telegram: Susan Keezer: Surviving decluttering takes trash bags, lunch