In spite of having recently purchased Roku, we are saving our VCR and a Television that has its own VCR. One of us firmly believes we may need it one day.
During a recent reorganization, I unearthed a box with spare buttons. Most of them belonged to garments long ago consigned to Goodwill. So, what would happen if I threw away the whole shebang? Within seconds of the buttons becoming fodder for the recycle bin, my beloved would inquire if there were a spare button for the old jacket he swore five years ago that he had burned. Even on skid row, you would discover a more current, fashion forward statement. A missing button on that jacket is a minor flaw.
He promises to organize and discard, but the man has serious issues when it comes to eliminating anything. There is no twelve-step program for this kind of retention obsession. At the supermarket, he manages to secure extra twisties. He has managed to escape arrest, thus far for his petty crime. They are taking over the kitchen junk drawer. We could bungee off the roof with twist tie straps.
He has a lifelong love affair with paper. There is a file on his desk for every conceivable topic, but he files most of the stuff under “loose ends” and “follow up” He clips newspaper items and prints online articles, but the information disappears. It refuses to cooperate and retreats mysteriously into a file known only to itself. I asked him to double check his files to see if they could be lurking among the other DOA material. A scanner and back up hard drive will never replace the manila file folders he clutches to his bosom.
He undeniably has a Tote issue. After spring cleaning, we agreed that the plastic Totes we have hauled all over the universe would go to new homes or the recycle bin. That lasted two weeks. After the last family member’s relocation, he put out an APB calling for the return of all missing Totes, plus their lids. I have run out of places to store the totes. No one actually believes we have a beige, plastic sectional sofa.
I, on the other hand, methodically whittled down my assortment of vases. I kept only the fifty that are unique, organized by size, shape and color, stored out of sight in their own armoire. I call my stuff collectibles; his treasures defy definition.
He prefers the term “collector”, refusing to accept the more accurate term pack rat. Currently we are at an impasse, but we have agreed neither of us is comfortable watching “The Hoarders.”