Storing My Stash

It is my untested observation that not having children makes growing up somewhat more optional. Despite my ambivalence towards various things adult, however, I find evidence of adulthood all over my house and habits. Grown-up-ness is a tricky condition that can be difficult to diagnose until it is has a 106 degree fever.

I often run into little reminders that I am not punk rock anymore. Those who have known me throughout my life might question how punk rock I ever was, but I have been in an offensively named band, so I think that probably qualifies me for some level of former claim to the term.  Similarly, the boyfriend and I sometimes debate whether or not we are middle class. Education, yes, lifestyle, sort of, combined salary, um, no, but by choice, so, maybe.

Our apartment in Columbus (which is not in a middle class neighborhood) is smaller than the apartment in Charleston was (yet more for the rent, hmph), and we would get rid of extra stuff except we are thinking about buying a house, and what if we need it then? And also, as an old granny friend of Matt always says, as soon as you throw something out, you are off running to the store again.

However, because we are not punk rock anymore, the piles of stuff, like the porch swing and beer brewing supplies and boxes we haven’t unpacked because what if we move in a few months?, in the living room, combined with the -5 degree weather keeping us both in the house, have been giving me crazy eyes.

Something had to be done, and it wasn’t going to give me any street cred.  So, we drove the Prius to The Container Store, and bought, you guessed it, containers. I spent the evening organizing my fabric collection, taking it out of mangy, dented, overflowing shoeboxes and color coding it into Made in the USA partially recycled snappy shut plastic containers.

The wild cotton mess of used, dumpstered, inherited, clearance racked, and reclaimed fabrics have a nostalgic and artistic anarchy to them, but for now, the stash is sealed and stacked.

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