Closet of Narnia

One day, when the husband was at work, I had the grand idea to clear out his office closet. Said closet has since been affectionally renamed the Narnia Closet. Here’s the tale of how I entered the Narnia Closet and didn’t return quite the same.

Starting Out Strong

When I trudged through the boxes that amassed from last minute packing from the apartment to the house, I would not have been surprised to have been met by the half-naked goat-man with a pan flute warning me of the Ice Queen’s arrival. [Have I butchered the plot, yet?] What I found instead, as I alluded to above, were last minute chotchkies and odds and ends that didn’t deserve a well-labeled box when the packing process began.

"Welcome to the Narnia Closet. I'm that goat-dude."

Starting strong with momentum combined with optimism, I easily removed the wedding pictures (on DVDs), my keyboard, picture frames and other knick knacks that can be given a home.

But then I found his things — the computer cables to the computers we no longer have, the CD-ROM games that are borderline classics now, portfolio books, C++ books and other guides and computer controllers.

What to do? These aren’t mine to throw away. How do I organize these things? They’re not mine to organize. And how do I classify one gadget from another?

Foaming At The Mouth

I dig deeper into the Narnia Closet, sweat on the brow, and find a larger box than before with the same kinds of things as the first but more of them. I dig to the bottom — index cards, a huge shoebox filled with pens, textbooks, bobbleheads, neck pillow.

Maybe I could grow a pair and start making decisions right then and there and sort someone else’s stuff. But the respect I had, and the feeling of violation if this were to happen to me, prevailed.

As I was torn between the ideals of having a clean and orderly home and respecting another person’s things, a black hole opened up underneath me. And I was spiraling down into the darkness.

Husband came home from a stress-laden day of work to find wife rocking herself on the stair’s landing — chunks of frizzy hair freed from the pony tail, tears on the verge of emerging and muttering something about how the  Narnia Closet had won and how he was a hoarder.

It was something like this. Maybe a little more rocking side-to-side.

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