I'm Addicted to Organizing — And That's Okay
Getty As I was cleaning my cleaning products, it first dawned on me that I might have a problem. Yes, I was actually wiping down the Lysol can and dusting the vacuum off (it gets dirty, you know?). This was, of course, after a marathon organizing session in my apartment, whereby I'd put away, tossed, folded, or filed everything I owned. I've been like that for as long as I can remember — meticulous about order, diligent about arranging — and it never occurred to me that it might be an issue. Until I started cleaning the cleaning products.
I know what you're thinking: I need help.
If I'm being honest, I think my dad played a large part in my obsessive organizing. The product of a military school upbringing, he is only slightly less rigid than I am about tidiness. I remember him shining his shoes when I was growing up. He'd lay out the polish, rags, brushes, and rubber gloves (I told you, anal-retentive is inherited) and line up each pair to be shined. Methodically making his way down the line, he then placed them back in his closet from brown to black. As I grew older, whenever I was home, if I set a pair of boots or shoes by the door at my parents' house, I could guarantee that the next time I saw them they'd be polished to a high shine, courtesy of my dad. Luckily we're the only two in our family that reach near-clinical levels of organization, otherwise it'd be a little too Stepford for comfort.
But back to my own cleaning mania.
Upon first inspection, one would think my apartment is just regulation orderly. Books all lined up neatly on shelves, picture frames just so, bed made, counter tops clean. But a closer look reveals the undiagnosed OCD-levels of organization that leave those in my inner circle suspecting that I do, in fact, have mild OCD. Not the obsessive-hand-washing, lock-and-unlock-the-door ritualistic, TLC series kind of OCD, but certainly the kind where if I line up all of my shirts folded in a drawer and they don't fit to my liking, I can't close the drawer and step away from it. They have to be perfect, separated by function, and the drawer needs to close cleanly. Anything less is unacceptable.
My friends used to come over and, when I was out of the room, move something to see if I'd notice. A photo a few inches to the right. A knick-knack a few inches to the left. Of course, I'd notice! Everything has a set place. Once we deviate from that, it's a slippery slope into Hoarders territory. They thought they were being funny. I thought they were savages.
My drawers were actually a serious cause for concern when my boyfriend and I started dating. I thought he'd accidentally catch a glimpse of Sleeping With The Enemy-style organization in my apartment and flee for the hills, fearing I'd impose my clothing tyranny on him, too. Fortunately, he didn't. When he eventually moved in, I even took that as an opportunity to purge and reposition everything I owned, and what should've taken a weekend wound up taking five weeks. (That's the other thing — once I start, I can't stop.)
Making some room in a cabinet becomes contemplating the entire contents of said cabinet, lining them up just so, and then moving on to the next area. I've stacked vertically, horizontally, rolled things up, folded things within themselves — hell, my closet looks like it was designed by Egyptian pyramid builders. You can barely slide a piece of paper between storage bins. And don't even get me started on the wondrousness that is expandable files. I should not be allowed in office supply stores, home improvement stores, or anyplace that sells closet-anything. The first time I walked into a Container Store, I practically cried.
I know I'm not alone, there are others like me. Contemplating their closets, considering their kitchen cabinets far more than any normal person should. But I can't help it, it feels good. And it's efficient. Saving time knowing exactly where everything is? That's just common sense right there. Cataloging and arranging my possessions and projects is my drug. Like there's a runner's high, I'm convinced there's also a "cleaner's high," where you get a rush of endorphins when you see everything lined up in size order. A burst of dopamine when you snap the lid on one of those plastic nesting bins.
Yes, the struggle is real. And it's probably color-coded.
From: Veranda
I know what you're thinking: I need help.
If I'm being honest, I think my dad played a large part in my obsessive organizing. The product of a military school upbringing, he is only slightly less rigid than I am about tidiness. I remember him shining his shoes when I was growing up. He'd lay out the polish, rags, brushes, and rubber gloves (I told you, anal-retentive is inherited) and line up each pair to be shined. Methodically making his way down the line, he then placed them back in his closet from brown to black. As I grew older, whenever I was home, if I set a pair of boots or shoes by the door at my parents' house, I could guarantee that the next time I saw them they'd be polished to a high shine, courtesy of my dad. Luckily we're the only two in our family that reach near-clinical levels of organization, otherwise it'd be a little too Stepford for comfort.
But back to my own cleaning mania.
Upon first inspection, one would think my apartment is just regulation orderly. Books all lined up neatly on shelves, picture frames just so, bed made, counter tops clean. But a closer look reveals the undiagnosed OCD-levels of organization that leave those in my inner circle suspecting that I do, in fact, have mild OCD. Not the obsessive-hand-washing, lock-and-unlock-the-door ritualistic, TLC series kind of OCD, but certainly the kind where if I line up all of my shirts folded in a drawer and they don't fit to my liking, I can't close the drawer and step away from it. They have to be perfect, separated by function, and the drawer needs to close cleanly. Anything less is unacceptable.
My friends used to come over and, when I was out of the room, move something to see if I'd notice. A photo a few inches to the right. A knick-knack a few inches to the left. Of course, I'd notice! Everything has a set place. Once we deviate from that, it's a slippery slope into Hoarders territory. They thought they were being funny. I thought they were savages.
My drawers were actually a serious cause for concern when my boyfriend and I started dating. I thought he'd accidentally catch a glimpse of Sleeping With The Enemy-style organization in my apartment and flee for the hills, fearing I'd impose my clothing tyranny on him, too. Fortunately, he didn't. When he eventually moved in, I even took that as an opportunity to purge and reposition everything I owned, and what should've taken a weekend wound up taking five weeks. (That's the other thing — once I start, I can't stop.)
Making some room in a cabinet becomes contemplating the entire contents of said cabinet, lining them up just so, and then moving on to the next area. I've stacked vertically, horizontally, rolled things up, folded things within themselves — hell, my closet looks like it was designed by Egyptian pyramid builders. You can barely slide a piece of paper between storage bins. And don't even get me started on the wondrousness that is expandable files. I should not be allowed in office supply stores, home improvement stores, or anyplace that sells closet-anything. The first time I walked into a Container Store, I practically cried.
I know I'm not alone, there are others like me. Contemplating their closets, considering their kitchen cabinets far more than any normal person should. But I can't help it, it feels good. And it's efficient. Saving time knowing exactly where everything is? That's just common sense right there. Cataloging and arranging my possessions and projects is my drug. Like there's a runner's high, I'm convinced there's also a "cleaner's high," where you get a rush of endorphins when you see everything lined up in size order. A burst of dopamine when you snap the lid on one of those plastic nesting bins.
Yes, the struggle is real. And it's probably color-coded.
From: Veranda
By Renata Sellitti
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