Closet Case

I’ve heard that a cluttered closet is a sign of a cluttered mind. And since I can’t bear the thought of my mind being cluttered — I want it all antiseptic, streamlined, and white, like an Ikea kitchen, a nurse, or an iPod! — I recently decided to do something about the condition of my closets, which, if I were to put stock in the aforementioned clutter-notion, indicated that I was on the verge of psychosis.
Now, I’m all for mental illness, and in fact fully encourage it to flourish in those I care about most. My sister, for instance, was never more adorable than the time her multiple personalities, six in all, took turns emerging during high school detention and acted out, with startling accuracy, the first hour of The Breakfast Club. And I could tell you stories about my best friend’s manic-depression that would have you green with envy. But as far as mental illness housed within me? Well, no. I would have no part of it. I have double standards to live up to, after all. I had to do something drastic.
So yesterday I opened the double doors of each of my three closets (yes! three large closets! in Manhattan! and that’s excluding the coat closet and two linen closets!), six doors in all (one for each of my sister’s multiple personalities, as Mindy, one of them [the only one aware of the others’s existence] pointed out the last time she/they were here), and decided to clear out the clutter so there could be no question as to the state of my mental health. However, I have a real aversion to anything even remotely domestic, so I decided to take the easy way out and tackle the mess from a different angle.
I ice-skated into the kitchen and got a serrated knife, melon-baller, and rubber spatula, and skated into the first bedroom to set to my task. Opening my head was a snap. (After I used the serrated knife, though, I realized I could’ve just slid a credit card in the special slot at the nape of my neck to gain access! Duh!) Once inside my brain, I scooped out the pulpy insides with the melon-baller, taking special care to remove all the stuff stuck to the sides with the rubber spatula. A couple of times I got a little confused because I couldn’t coordinate my real-life hands with those reflected in the mirror, but all in all it was a piece of cake.
I was a little disappointed with the stuff inside my head. It looked like the insides of a pumpkin (and even more seedy!) or butternut squash, but a little redder (I’m tempted to say “coral” or “persimmon”). I’d hoped it would be something more appetizing — at least like sushi rice with flecks of nori and sesame seed, tamari-seared tempeh, or green bean casserole, but no.
After I cleared my skull of this clutter, I had to decide what I could salvage and what I had to give away to a charitable organization. I knew there had to be stuff I could keep, so I tried on some of the stuff to decide what was what. And let me tell you, I couldn’t even look at my hypothalamus in the mirror without cringing. “What the hell was I thinking when I bought this?” I said in horror. “Was this ever in style?” Before I could convince myself it could be “kinda cute” if I added some interesting buttons, I put it, along with my choroid plexius (I’m just not the choroid plexius type), in a dark green 30-gallon drawstring-handle garbage bag.
All in all, I got rid of eleven bagsful of brain clutter. (I took special care to make sure I didn’t lobotomize! LOL!) And then, when the frenzy died down, I realized I didn’t have that much stuff left over! All that remains is the part of my brain responsible for the enjoyment of floppy puppies and dollhouse miniatures.
I feel so lightheaded!