Depression Mentality, Clutter, And Germphobia
You wouldn’t think these three things go together, but read on: I’ve often said that Zack and I each have a Depression mentality. When we combined our middle-aged lives a few years ago, we co-mingled our inclinations and predispositions along with the household goods. Although we’re too young to have lived through The Great Depression, we each seem to have inherited the mentality from our parents. Maybe this will stand us in good stead during these recessionary times. I wrote before of our attempts at living “the simple life” (neither easy nor particularly economical these days).
You wouldn’t think these three things go together, but read on: I’ve often said that Zack and I each have a Depression mentality. When we combined our middle-aged lives a few years ago, we co-mingled our inclinations and predispositions along with the household goods. Although we’re too young to have lived through The Great Depression, we each seem to have inherited the mentality from our parents. Maybe this will stand us in good stead during these recessionary times. I wrote before of our attempts at living “the simple life” (neither easy nor particularly economical these days).
Anyone who reads this column regularly or has visited our home knows we sometimes have a problem with clutter. (This drives my children crazy, particularly my son, the minimalist. Josh says living with me and my “things” all his life drove him the other direction. He keeps insisting that the more you have, the more you must deal with it. These words are right out of his father’s mouth, my ex-husband. And I guess its right. But I enjoy my stuff. Zack keeps his things under control and organized. Mine too often get away from me. I blame this on anything that’s handy at the moment. If one is a creative person, there are always projects underway (and usually several unfinished), things to do, tools to use, supplies one needs. I often use creativity as an excuse for my clutter. When Zack was paralyzed and we lived in hospitals, I was able to simply say, “I don’t really live here now”, which was true. Even my kids couldn’t argue with that excuse. No one could fault me there. When we returned home, I could say, “All my time is taken being Zack’s care giver”. But as he’s improved, I’ve had to come up with new excuses for my messiness.
Today I’m blaming clutter on my Depression mentality. I recently read a recommendation about preparing for a possible flu pandemic. The suggestion was to stockpile enough canned goods and other necessary items to last a few weeks. This would make trips to town unnecessary should one contract the flu or fear contracting it in a pandemic situation. I have to note that the brochure I was reading was a government publication and, in my opinion, a total waste of my taxpayer money.
Let me segue for a moment into what others often considered my germphobia. For years my friends made fun of my valiant attempts to stay healthy by washing my hands, using tissues to open doors, employing hand wipes, etc. I taught my kids not to share utensils or cups, not to eat or drink after others. You use a public restroom, and then touch the flusher. (I always use my foot if possible). You wash your hands in a public restroom, and then touch a bare, germ-laden door handle. Not smart. You might as well just stick your hand in one of the toilets and be done with it. In my opinion, all my efforts at cleanliness were just good hygiene and common sense. (In any case, we all came down with more than enough illnesses when my kids were small to build up plenty of immunities).
For all my efforts toward staying healthy (before it was fashionable, endorsed by presidents), I’ve suffered the snide comments and rolling of eyes with what good grace I could manage. After Zack fell ill, I became even more careful. Who would care for him if I were sick? So now everyone ELSE is trying to avoid shaking hands without seeming antisocial. I feel so validated, so justified! People are knocking knuckles and elbows, coughing into the crooks of their arms. Suddenly it’s cool to do all the dorky things I did before. Folks are using antibacterial hand cleaners with great abandon, washing hands in hot, soapy water to the tune of two rounds of “Happy Birthday to You” (the length of time necessary to kill germs). I’ve kept hand cleaner in my purse and in our trucks for years. I’ve always used it upon exiting public places. Now the dispensers are available in a variety of spots from hospitals and clinics to supermarkets to houses of worship. We’re all turning into facsimiles of Monk, the obsessive compulsive, germphobic detective on T.V. (“Monk” in my opinion, is one of the funniest shows on the tube).
OK, back to the pandemic. Believe me, we have enough canned goods here at all times to stay alive for months, even enough dog and cat food. I credit Depression mentality. When it’s on sale, I buy it. When the large package is cheaper, I buy it. So what if I have no place to store the large size? I’m one of those people who would be horrified to find myself down to the last roll of bath tissue. I doubt I could sleep peacefully under this circumstance. I must have all the tools I need or MIGHT need for every conceivable project or event. If one is good, two would be better. Why am I like this? I really don’t know. What I do know is this; in case of a pandemic, I believe I could survive unless I ran out of toilet paper.
(Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She is an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life.)
