The Roof

A therapist once told me, don't offer to help a neighbor with their roof if yours is leaking.

That was perfect advice for me. I tend to overextend myself (as a friend observed) and, when I do, I'm usually ignoring what I should be doing in some important area.

I'd like to do a lot of things, but then I think of the roving pile upstairs that has ebbed out of one of the guest rooms. It started as a pile of books from graduate school and then grew to include a pile of receipts. Sometimes the receipts live in a basket, sometimes in a drawer, but their preferred spot is next to the pile of books.

When I had a party, a couple parties ago, I moved all kinds of piles upstairs. The result was a respectable ("tawlable," as they say in the South) downstairs, but an upstairs that has become a little scary.  The books and receipts were joined by a small tin of clipped recipes, two unkempt plastic filing structures (one for finances, one for travel), and an overstuffed magazine basket. An issue of Time lies in the paper island and a picture of Donald Trump looms up at me with every trip up and down the stairs.

In addition to the awful look that my upstairs has acquired, I hate the feel of walking on paper. I've become pretty good at tip-toeing over it at night.

How do you eat an elephant, another friend suggested. That's how you clean the upstairs, one bite at a time. Then I won't have to sneak around the pile to help a neighbor.