I bought some more stupid Ball jars today.
What is wrong with me?
I wrestled with the decision to buy more jars all day long. It was as if I was deciding between saving myself, my husband or my child; I obviously take kitchen organization quite seriously. Back and forth, back and forth, I teetered. It was exhausting. All morning I planned to buy more after lunch; at 12:30, I decided against it. At 1:30 I changed my mind and decided to go for it. And then at 1:35 I chose to nix the idea. Again. I busied myself with laundry and vacuuming and wasting time on the Internet for a while and by 2:30, I decided then and there that I simply NEEDED more Ball jars to facilitate the vision I held for the creation of a uniform, utopian
society pantry. Yes, it was THAT intense. For if I did not secure another twelve quart sized Ball jars at that very moment, my pantry would be a mess, thus rendering myself (and my kitchen) effectively ruined for life.
This is serious stuff, folks.
As I was driving home with my newly acquired Ball jars, I started thinking about why I get so fixated on things of an organizational nature. I’m certainly not a psychologist, although I could probably stand to visit one
to formally blame my mom for everything, but I’ve decided that the reason I fixate on organization is because it’s something I can control. I like control. In case you didn’t know. When the seed telling me that THIS will make me happy or THAT will make my life seem more put together and complete is planted in my small little brain, I can’t turn it off. It eats at me until I relent.
In the grand scheme of things, $20 in glass jars isn’t going to ruin us financially. I’m more bothered by the fact that I can so easily succumb to the pressures of want vs. need. I know I don’t NEED two dozen glass jars. I have a cabinet full of perfectly acceptable plastic containers. I could have held out, but I didn’t and I’m mostly okay with that. Filling those jars with dried beans and pasta and coffee and brown sugar made the neat freak in me a little bit happier and these days, I’ll take what I can get.
Before I go on, let me say that I’m well aware of my privilege and I do not want anyone to think that I’m complaining about my circumstances. I realize I have it pretty good and for that I’m truly grateful. With that being said, I’m sort of a mess. Most of what contributes to the mess I’m in is my fault, but still, being a mess isn’t a lot of fun. To give you an idea, here’s an excerpt from an email I wrote to Craig this morning:
On another note, I’m starting to hyperventilate. My friend is moving today! School is already winding down. Summer is going to be ridiculously hard and slow without the Bergers, Knapps and Abernathys. I’m bleeding money without even trying very hard. Gas prices are making everything more expensive. I ate too much cereal two nights in a row. I can’t even think about moving. And packing. And the logistics of first/second loads of household goods, shipping cars, saying good bye, switching schools, having to wear a bathing suit year round, not having Body Combat or Body Attack to help with said bathing suit body.
I’m making mountains out of mole hills. I know.
Speaking of which, can I go hide in one of those mountains and/or mole hills?
See, this is serious stuff. I mean, what else would a privileged lady of leisure complain about? Bathing suits? Eating too much cereal? Not having enough friends around to entertain us during the summer?
It’s all pretty dumb, I confess. However, it’s all weighing me down. It’s even more ridiculous for me to confess that organizing my pantry relieves some of the stress I place on myself, but it’s true. Controlling what I can control makes it easier to deal with the things I cannot control.
Now, if I could only control how much cereal I shove in my mouth at night; then I wouldn’t have to worry so much about my moving-to-a-place-where-bathing-suits-are-worn-year-round predicament.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going to need another case (or two) of Ball jars (pint-sized this time) to deal with my bathing suit issues.