Too much of a good thing

Have you ever heard the saying "You can't have too much of a good thing"? I've been pondering that thought this morning. Try putting together a definition of "too much" and "good" and see what you get.

It all started on Sunday when I wanted to wear a top I had recently purchased. I remember seeing the bag in my bedroom. I don't remember ever taking the top out of the bag, but I am certainly not foolish enough to trust my memory. This is the same system which allows me to call my children by a label sounding something like "Erikbeccawillflitwhoeveryouare!!!" At any rate, I started what I thought would be a simple search of the likely landing spots in my room. Three days later, I have yet to find that piece of clothing, but I have unearthed a ridiculous amount of everything else!

Books are good. We want to encourage our children to read. Everyone in our house enjoys relaxing with a good book. Chad, in fact, relaxes with good, bad, ugly and completely pointless books on a regular basis. His $5/bag Library sale finds yield both treasures and crap, in about even measure. But we have read them, and they're still here. On the nightstand, on the dresser, on the shelves. Sure, a few are worth keeping, but how many will I ever read again?

Socks. Necessary, functional, good clothing. We all have socks. I have a dozen or more pairs, some for work, some casual. The kids have various cute and funky socks, others for hiking or sports. And then, on top of my dresser, is the sock basket from hell. This is where all the rejected, dejected, disenfranchised socks end up. I do not know where they go. I think they are swallowed by the washer, or the dryer, or the corners and closets of the rooms from which they originate. But I cling to the survivors, thinking surely their mates will come eventually in one of those happy-ending reunions played out between the soldier and the ever-faithful lover who believed in his return.

shoes. shoes are good. I have shoes from the Eisenhower administration. THAT is not good. I wasn't even born during the Eisenhower administration. They need to go.

Suitcases. And I include duffel bags in this collection. I keep these under my bed. Entire generatiosn of dust bunnies have taken their yearly holiday greeting card pictures in my carpetbag collection which rarely moves. We have a couple faves, and the rest just take up space. I actually have a suitcase full of duffel bags. How crazy is that? Why do I have them?

I could go on, but you get the idea. The idea of wading through everything I've unearthed is absolutely exhausting. It's one of those task which will send couds of dust flying. It will require boxes, and decisions, and an inordinate amount of time I rarely have in lump supply. I know even when I finish this room, I have only to go to the next to find the same situation. Then there is the question of what to do with said boxes once they are full and ready to be heaved. Why would anyone want all this stuff I once considered good, and came to realize is more hindrance than help?

Sigh. I just want my top. Where the heck did I put that thing?