I now give thanks that the Thanksgiving “holiday” is over.
Some holiday. Okay, so I got to sleep in four days in a row. I got some writing done. You know what I did most of the other time? I freaking *##$!@+| cleaned my home!
Who knew it was so dirty?
The thing is, I’m a fairly neat person. Except for too many stacks of paper and books and magazines lying around, my place is kinda orderly and clean.
But when I’m having friends over for a belated (it was this weekend, not Thursday) Thanksgiving dinner, not only do I spend hours grocery shopping and cooking, I feel the bizarre, uncharacteristic need to SCRUB and VACUUM everything and CLEAN OUT CLOSETS (Why? My friends are not going to peek into them) and get rid of some CRAP that has accumulated over the past year.
You know what the problem is with having too much stuff? Taking care of stuff takes time. My precious time that could be spent on far more meaningful pursuits. Maybe that’s why getting rid of stuff always feels so liberating. Like I can travel through life more lightly now. It reminds me of the penniless Buddhist monks I saw in Thailand and Cambodia. They seemed so serene, so content, even when they had no stuff.
Bet it’s safe to say they never slept outside a Wal-Mart (OMG!) or Best Buy before Black Friday so that they could get a great deal on new stuff. Weren’t the news reports on those shoppers obscene?
I mean, I am no non-materialistic saint. I can be as avaricious as the next American (hence all my stuff). But when I saw the hordes of frenzied shoppers trampling over each other and fighting to get their hands on boxes of stuff and yelling and screaming and hooting in triumph when they got their new stuff… It really, thoroughly disgusted me. I mean, these weren’t exactly poor folk struggling to get bread to feed their young ‘uns. They were all just rampaging rapacious mob-minded jerks.
In my next life, I think I wanna be a Buddhist monk. Or a supermodel who gives all her stuff to charity.
Anyway, I should probably now confess to having my own rather materialistic fantasies, and one of them is this: When I finally become a famous wealthy author, I am so going to hire a housekeeper.
Wouldn’t that be wonderful? To have enough money to pay someone to come once a week or just a couple times a month, and do all the cleaning and shopping and organizing while I spend my time writing and doing only what I want to do. And what I want to do does not include housework.
That’s my fantasy. Got any of your own?