Humor

Confessions Of A Piler

The world makes me be messy.

Everything should be like this. (Photo by frank mckenna on Unsplash)

There are two types of people: People who are neat and organized and who stack objects with geometric precision so they can immediately see what they need and extract it and then go on with their day, secure in the knowledge that they are superior human beings who deserve to keep drawing breath.

And then there are pilers.

I’m a piler.

This is not my fault. The world has made me a piler because it insists on being made up of things that are weird shapes.

For example, plastic containers. Some are square, some are round, some are skinny, some are…

Yes, some are triangular.

I’m going to have to take a minute to compose myself.

I just threw away the one triangular plastic container that I hoarded from a piece of pie that I must’ve bought once in 1996. It had never seen another piece of pie, it was never going to see another piece of pie, and I felt sorry for it. I sent it to plastic container Valhalla, i.e. the recycling bin.

You would think I could keep towels neatly folded, right?

But no. When I first moved into this house, I decided to put all the bathroom towels on the very top shelf of the bathroom closet where I have to stand on tippy-toe to reach.

That decision was made, and it cannot be unmade.

As a result, all of the towels are… let’s just call it was it is… stuffed into the closet because I’m too short to be eye-level with the towels whereby I could stack them neatly on top of each other.

Not only do I end up pulling them out of the closet like a Kleenex out of the box, sending all of the other towels leaping out to join their brethren, but I only ever use the towels that are in the front.

There are towels in the back of the closet that are as pristine as the day I bought them, never having seen the light of day or my butt crack.

I’m too lazy to go upstairs where I store my clothes in somewhat orderly fashion in actual clothing receptacles, so the things I wear the most get thrown… yes, thrown… into a downstairs closet, or (possibly) worse, stacked on the end of my couch.

I never had a couch closet (or a floor closet) when I was married, but as a single person, it’s like a clothing Lord of the Flies over here. Marie Kondo would burst into flames the minute she walked through the door.

Look, when I die, I don’t need to be laid out neatly. Just stuff me in the ground. I’ll understand.

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