I have a problem with stuff. I’m just not much of a stuff person. To have things just to have them and not for some specific purpose doesn’t make any sense to me.
But once acquired it seems to be amazingly difficult to get stuff out of your life. And I maintain that when you aren’t looking, stuff goes beyond the handholding stage and works itself into passionate procreation.
As one ages, and the stuff hanky panky rages uncontrolled, the weight of the stuff burden gets heavier and heavier.
But attempts to lighten the load, at least in my household, are often thwarted by he who holds all his stuff to be not only emotionally precious, but worth something.
News flash — stuff has monetary value only if you intend to actually part with it in exchange for cold, hard cash. If you have no intention of moving it on, it is worthless. It’s just stuff, nothing more, and it’s engaging in lewd behaviour behind your back in your home, all the time.
There is some extraneous stuff in my household that has practical purposes. Two of the items actually belong to my daughter, but any time I’ve offered them up to her I’ve been told she really doesn’t want them, “yet.”
One other would be willingly accepted by the intended recipients, but it’s one of those “emotionally” charged pieces of furniture with a family history. I’m dragging my feet while I try to come up with a convincing argument for its removal from our stuff collection.
I also have an item that should go to one or another of my far-flung nieces or nephews, but I never seem to get around to putting the word out that it is up for grabs.
So, even though I proclaim myself a minimalist who has a healthy distrust of stuff, it still has me in a stranglehold.
