Pajamaralways

In the midst of a minor panic attack. The pile at my feet grows and grows and grows. I am cleaning out my closet. Reorganizing. Preparing to move to college. I've seen the television programs about pack-rats, people who pathologically hoard objects until their homes become unlivable. Houses strewn with garbage and the toys of grown children who have long-since moved out. Apartments packed with towers of newspapers spanning decades. The homeowner lies weeping in the fetal position as the producers of the show pack their possessions into garbage sacks and toss them in the dumpster. My walk-in closet is choked with my things. I pull my clothing from the dresser and find it increasingly difficult to part with things that I haven't worn in years. A wool poncho decorated with pictures of llamas, 12 hoodies, a black, polyester floor length dress, and several velour track suits that my mother passed down to me. I find that a good 40% of my wardrobe consists of pajamas. I don't wear pajamas. They make me itchy. Also I have no socks. I call a friend for emotional support. She suggests that I throw out things that I have borrowed from other people. I get rid of a pair of cowboy boots left for me by an aunt and the track suits. Even this gives me the cold sweats. I keep the pajamas.