My wonderfully patient sister/therapist came over yesterday and tried to help me begin the process of cleaning up my workshop. It's taken on a life of its own and spawned countless piles where scary spiders can lie in wait for me.
Basically, her job entailed actually sorting things and moving them around while I sighed. Then she'd tell me it was alright. Or to just throw it out. Or that it really would be okay. You get the idea.
So here's the problem: I feel like the Before picture doesn't look dramatically different than the After picture. (Sidenote: This is in no way a reflection on her near-heroic efforts and saint-like patience.) I know it truly is better because I saw her take boxes out to car and I can see the air hockey table and I can get to the all-important drill press without high-stepping over something. But there's a lot of work left.
Why must my creative genius result in such inevitable, unbridled chaos?
And why can't we all learn to be so relaxed in the midst of utter disorganization?
(No, I will not be taking this opportunity to also address the laundry issue that has vomited all over my bed. My advice: Look away. Just look away.)