How to Kill An Office Chair
Some shite has to go
I’m on my annual end-of-the-year rampage of clearing my space so I can open up those channels of blessings blocked by too much of everything. No, we’re not rich or privileged. Thankfully, we don’t want for much — able to put food on the table. It’s the buildup over a year driving me nuts.
The neon colorful tennis shoes I accidentally bought a half size too big, never took back. The t-shirt I shrunk in the dryer — I hold on to because it’s cute, but I don’t like the new clinging fit.
There’s the bookcase full of encyclopedias I’ve kept since the kids were little. Why? No one reads encyclopedias. Proof? They look brand new.
Libraries don’t take them, neither does Good Will or the Salvation Army. I’ve scratched my head a few times over that one. Aren’t there some impoverished nations that need them?
My youngest was four when the internet went public, the oldest eight. Book research was dead by the time they needed to construct a historical essay. I think it’s an emotional attachment because my sweet mother-in-law bought them for her first grandchildren. I’m still dealing with that dilemma.
The rickety office chair I’ve been eying for months was my next victim. I’ll target the garage in another week, fill a U-Haul with boatloads of the…
