Since moving out of home, I have never, ever completely unpacked my belongings into a new place.
I don’t know why it is, but there always seems to be one box that I just can’t see the point of unpacking.
I think it is because I’m a hoarder and can’t bear to throw things away but can’t see the point of using them either so they remain packed awaiting their next home.
To say this is a milestone for me is an understatement.
My partner, who is organised and devoid of any form of clutter or baggage, is also extremely happy by this achievement.
I had a reason for reaching this milestone; my sister and her boyfriend are coming to our house for dinner tomorrow afternoon and I realised earlier in the week that this will be the first time I host an immediate family member at my house for dinner.
Being the youngest, I desperately wanted everything to be perfect so that my sister, the eldest, could go back to my family and say I would make a killer housewife…or that I had just set myself up nicely.
My self-psychoanalysis has uncovered that there is always a part of you, when the youngest, that feels you need to prove your independence. That or I have OCD…you decide.
Anyway, I decided that the last box and the to-be-hung pictures were the only hurdles in proving my independence.
Today our house was turned into a blur of 3M hooks, chronologically order magazines and strategically placed coffee table books, and boy was it worth.
Our walls are no longer empty, our shelves neatly ordered, candles and books dotted across tables and my independence proved.
The best part is that our house is now more like a home.
I like that.
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