Un-hoarding

Some might call it Discardia. But, to me, that lends a certain whimsy and good intention that doesn't necessarily apply in cases like mine.

Cases where you're aware of your aversion to collections and stockpiles and accumulations of things and yet still you uncover big buckets in your garage containing six pairs of identical (except for the model year) Brooks Adrenaline GTS running shoes at various stages of exhausted wear and six pairs of worn through the fingers size small Atlas gardening gloves.

Oh my god just light me on fire already!

Apparently I have not cleaned out my potting bench since we moved to this house six years ago. Apparently it takes us moving house in order for me to stop my hoarding madness before it overtakes us both. Apparently I will run around unshod and ungloved in the event of collapse of either the Brooks or Atlas companies.

Did I mention that when I uncovered this particular gem of a character flaw I was wearing YET ANOTHER pair of Atlas gloves and YET ANOTHER pair of Brooks Adrenaline GTS running shoes?

I totally did not realize it at the time.

And that there were two other pairs of gloves in other dedicated spots and two more pairs of Adrenalines in my bedroom awaiting a run on either pavement or trails.

No, I did not mention that yet. Because I'm just, as of right now, coming to terms with my inadvertent hoarding tendencies.

Because this weekend, when I decided to join Bubba in the garage for happy hour while he waxed our skis, I got antsy, started cleaning out "my" part of the garage and then realized that, LO, I've been hoarding.

Also hoarding Willow Glen Bike Shop water bottles and climbing ropes.

I did not know this previously.

Honest! The concept of hoarding makes me nauseous! I can't even watch the previews of that show on cable because it makes me want to rip off my skin and run into a burning building for its cleansing properties!

Also, I appear to be stuck in some sort of apparel rut.

Sadly, this pile of identical running shoes and gardening gloves is only the tip of the I'm A Scary Woman Of Habit iceberg and what you're not seeing are the countless black zip-up hoodies I've worn threadbare, the Chevy's sombreros (Did you know that they're going out of business? Sad.) and other woven sun hats I've sweated into the fray,  the dozens of cheap American Eagle Antique Indigo Favorite Boyfriend jeans I've blown out or many many MANY pairs of Havaianas that have flipped their last flop on my bare feets.

I think I've gotten uncreative with my apparel, is what I'm saying, people. And, I haven't realized that despite the fact that all of these very poignant reminders are spilling out of buckets and practically in my face most of the time.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? I'm hoarding and I, apparently, have a uniform for my hoarding.

Oh. You're right.

FREAK.

Anyway, I righted my wrongs after coming to this realization.

That bucket of running shoes is getting donated (well, the ones with any wear left in them and no mud caked to the soles), the gloves have been tied together and marked for destruction and I have my eye on the most worn pair of jeans and rattiest black hoodie, so as soon as I can get them down from the top-most shelf in my closest, I'll throw them out, too.

Though that will be tough.

Because I'm a freak who has unnatural attachments to worn our inanimate objects.

Found this guy while digging in the yard.
He now has a place of honor on the Magnet Board of Found Bullshit.

There is no end to my madness.