Stuff, Stuff & more Stuff

This post was written by my mom, Judy, on her blog. I thought I would post it here for my friends because I know we can all relate. Plus, my mom is awesome, so read on :)

I'm never moving again.I mean it.I am going to die in this house.Anything to avoid moving again.I am bone tired. My arms and legs are so bruised from carrying containers and banging against corners of furniture and door jams, they look like rotten bananas. I've climbed more steps than what's inside the Statue of Liberty and the Washington Monument combined that my joints need 3-in-1 oil. I've perspired like a woman who used to be a man. I've smelled worse than roadkill in the noonday sun. I've pinched enough fingers; dropped too many things on my foot; hammered my thumbs one too many times; and stepped on enough carpet tacks.It's over, I tell you! The only thing my friends and family will have to carry out of my new home in the years to come is my dead body.Then I'll be free.

No more packing up stuff in cardboard boxes that bear labels from the last move a year ago.The "bathroom" box was packed with coffee mugs; the "living room" box was filled with pots and pans; the "dining room" box was filled with shoes. The "kitchen" boxes carried my books.Hey! How on earth did I accumulate so many books in a year's time? I sold and/or gave away practically an entire library before I left Pennsylvania last August! And shoes...where did all these shoes come from? And shampoos and conditioners and make up and jewelry and other accessories? Did they evolve somehow from the dust under my bed?

I'm embarrassed that I spent money on so much useless crap.I let myself down.When I hoofed it south last summer, I swore that I was going to live more simply. I had become a widow; and all I had was myself and Jesus, I said. I was going to get by on less.So I sold almost all of my furniture; gave away three-fourths of my wardrobe (shoes included, although it pained me); had a massive four-day "moving sale" where I unloaded a couple decades of Christmas decorations, dinnerware, kitchen things, knick knacks, small appliances.If I heard "are you sure you want to"... take your pick: sell, trash or give away something ... once, I heard it a hundred times. Yes. Yes. Yes. Get rid of it all. None of it has eternal value, I preached. What a know it all. Ha. How I deceive myself.

Sadly, what I sold last summer were items that I had purchased or lugged with me two years earlier when my husband and I "downsized" into an apartment.What is it about me and stuff? My husband, Jeff, and I used to marvel at U-Store-It units that were popping up throughout the landscape like kudzu. Imagine renting someone else's space to store your stuff. Stuff that won't fit in your house because it's filled with other stuff.Well, I've come to realize (albeit years too late) that, although I haven't rented a stranger's closet space, I am addicted to acquiring. "Admire, don't acquire" was the advice of my former pastor, Tommy Stoudt. I say it a lot now. But I don't always listen to myself.To give me a break, I can confidently say that I don't shop till I drop anymore. I have gotten better at tossing away sales fliers and catalogs before I read them, fearing I'll give in to temptation and get lost again in consumer hell. I have improved at "counting the cost."But I have a ways to go.

Shopping is still therapy.Every now and then, when I'm feeling stressed out or overwhelmed with "official" business, it does me good to go to the mall and put together outfits. I can't count the number of times I've pulled together an adorable ensemble only to put it all back. Nothing to show for my time except a sense of satisfaction that I can still mix and match with the best of them.Anyway, I digress...I am going to get even more strict with myself and only buy what I truly need. I want to build up a savings account; I want to learn to live with less; I want fewer things to dust, to wash, to stack and to iron. Less stuff to move.

And, oh, did I mention that I'm never moving again?

By: Judy Strausbaugh