That's right, decrappifying.

I've come to realize that visually clean spaces make me far less the crabby bitch. However, standing in the way of my tres moderne visual palette are several impediments:

• Crappifying. Indeed, you would think that, after 40 years of life, I would stop myself from taking off my clothing and throwing it in a pile on the floor (of the bathroom, the bedroom, the office, the living room). But, nooooooo (can you hear Steve Martin? If not, you're too young).

• Latency period. When I have crappified, it takes me a long time, sometimes a week or two, to get the motivation to decrappify on a moderate scale. I am agitated by my own untidiness; I spend a lot of time listening to my ridiculous personal narrator tell me I suck because I've never been able to pick up after myself since I broke the Camp Fire Law in first grade ("I promise to finish what I begin"). Despite the discomfort, somehow I just can't get to the work that would bring relief.

• Low Self Esteem. Everyone's favorite! Do I merit a clean house? If I can't keep it clean, does that mean I suck? If my untidy house is a reflection of my inner schemata, get thee behind me, Satan! Shut up, narrator. Fuck right off.

• Rationalization. Hell, I'm too busy avoiding oboe practice, exercise, finding my tax documents, and doing laundry that I certainly can't find the time to decrappify.

• Squirreling. I put things wherever is most convenient at the time. "A place for everything and everything in its place" has always, in theory, seemed lovely. In practice, it is ephemeral and damn it, that basket / bowl / drawer /piece of furniture is so much closer than wherever I planned to keep such items. Where did I plan to keep such items?

In the face of such powerful inhibitors, there I went, and damned if most of my crap is now not only in the loft, but also mostly organized and accessible. Whew. Done until next time.