Scan barcode
A review by hcq
Year of No Clutter by Eve O. Schaub
2.0
Having already had to clean up a rather hoarded-out house myself, before there was really a term to describe the issue, I confess to a morbid fascination with these sorts of books. I tell myself I'm reading them mainly to learn, so I can better understand what happened, but it’s like messing with a scab, or a loose tooth: I know I probably shouldn’t and it won’t help anything, but I can’t help it.
I’ve read the academic literature, I know the stages, I know about the sad paucity of treatment options. These personal accounts are more interesting, now, because they sometimes shed light on angles I hadn’t thought about yet.
Schaub’s story seemed a bit gimmicky to me, I confess, especially knowing that this is apparently her schtick: A year of no sugar, a year of cleaning, etc. I didn’t mind the arbitrariness of it so much as the lack of impact, when she blithely admitted to completely missing her one-year deadline—and it didn’t matter, at all. Weirdly, her editor didn’t even seem to care.
But one thing she said did strike me. In talking about her relationship with things, like clothes, she said that she had an unreasonable expectation that they wouldn’t wear out, and that she’d get unreasonably upset when they did. That resonated, as I’ve often found myself thinking/getting mad the same way: “Oh, no, this shirt’s fraying at the collar/cuff! Hey, that can’t be right, it’s only…” and then my indignant voice trails off, as I realize that I bought said shirt at least ten years ago.
Why am I so surprised that things don’t last forever, even now? It’s a fair question.
I’ve read the academic literature, I know the stages, I know about the sad paucity of treatment options. These personal accounts are more interesting, now, because they sometimes shed light on angles I hadn’t thought about yet.
Schaub’s story seemed a bit gimmicky to me, I confess, especially knowing that this is apparently her schtick: A year of no sugar, a year of cleaning, etc. I didn’t mind the arbitrariness of it so much as the lack of impact, when she blithely admitted to completely missing her one-year deadline—and it didn’t matter, at all. Weirdly, her editor didn’t even seem to care.
But one thing she said did strike me. In talking about her relationship with things, like clothes, she said that she had an unreasonable expectation that they wouldn’t wear out, and that she’d get unreasonably upset when they did. That resonated, as I’ve often found myself thinking/getting mad the same way: “Oh, no, this shirt’s fraying at the collar/cuff! Hey, that can’t be right, it’s only…” and then my indignant voice trails off, as I realize that I bought said shirt at least ten years ago.
Why am I so surprised that things don’t last forever, even now? It’s a fair question.