That is how I'm feeling as I'm cleaning out closets, labeling tupperware containers of food and thinking about all the laundry I'm going to do Tuesday before The Packers come and put all of my stuff in boxes.
Truth be known it's not the packing that is wigging me out, it's the unpacking I know I'm going to be doing in (hopefully) not too long. That is the day that I will shake my fist in the air and say "a pox on you packers, for putting pans with pants!"
How in the world did I end up with so much stuff anyway? Why do I need so many clothes? Can't Dave just play with pots for the rest of his life instead of this pile of toys? And for the LOVE how did I get so much PYREX!?
(I actually know the answer to the pyrex question. When Abigail had her "yard sale" out of the back of her car before she moved the first time she TRICKED me into taking a bunch of pyrex she didn't want. And now I have a lot. Like enough to bring 17 dishes to potluck ... that might be an exaggeration).
My solution to the (currently imagined) drama of unpacking what will certainly be an incredibly unorganized pile of who knows what is to just throw everything out before the movers come. This is quite obviously not the frugal answer since at some point I will think "if I only had One More Pyrex dish ..." and then go out and buy one to replace the ones I, in a fit of packing rage, threw away.
The things that are really in danger in this scenario are the things that do not belong to me at all. Example: the truly giant bronze buffalo given to Luke yesterday as a going away gift by the battalion. ... that we did not order. ... and do not want ... and is twice as big as the one everyone else ordered/got. I imagine myself unpacking it in Georgia while what I'm really looking for is the shower curtain and hurling it out the window in a fit of frustration. It won't be pretty ... not to mention it will probably seriously injure whoever it lands upon.
Another example: goad stick. What, you ask, is a goad stick? It is a stick used to poke animals until they move. When Luke came home from Afghanistan he brought a homemade one with him, complete with a bullet attached to the end. It's lovely. And I hate it.
I don't hate it because of what it is. I hate it because I imagine myself unpacking it and figuring out somewhere to put it while all I really want to do is go to sleep (I perpetually imagine myself exhausted from this whole process).
So where does frugal living meet with me not going crazy?? Is it OK to throw out EVERYTHING ... no. But how do I maintain my sanity?!