D-stuff

We have too much stuff, we know that. It exposes itself slow and daring, like a neighborhood pervert, every time we open the garage door, and when cornered, let’s say in a closet, it cowers behind nicer things, using camouflage, guilt and association to spare it from being tossed it out. We find it lurking in cupboards, in drawers, every time we sit down at the desk. It looms over us from walls, from bindings on bookshelves, and always from under the bed, tormenting us like a steely eyed monster. Go ahead, it says, I fucking dare you.

And we pull back our paw and we pause and we say to our tormented self: Under the bed isn’t really the problem, the damn problem lives up in the attic.

But the attic has stairs and a door and we really can’t give it the time it will take to sit down and wrestle with that, so we go on about our day and the stuff. just. lingers.

So it is with our supply cabinet, too. In there you’d find every blood glucose meter ever offered to us, every insulin pen, every pricker. You’d find adhesive wipes, alcohol wipes and some other wipe that utterly seems to have no purpose. There are boxes of test strips, of cartridges and infusion sets…and speaking of infusion sets we own a growing collection of leftover tubing, though why it’s leftover I haven’t a clue, it’s not like it isn’t required.

And of the One Thing we require over all, our level of hoarding is much worse, because imagine the ensuing calamity if suddenly our insulin maker experienced a Blue Bell moment and production were suddenly ceased. That’s no problem with a seven month supply of it tucked neatly away in the fridge (note: I know that, too, can be a problem, but I won’t let myself think of that, just as I wouldn’t consider what could happen during a world-wide doomsday event. Sorry, Doomsday, but fuck off).

But seriously, it’s easy to see how we can let it grow out of control. Our minds start to think: what if that, what if this. Maybe so, maybe not. And so we hold on tight to it, just in case. I’m starting to think there’s a better way. Might someone else not benefit by taking that monster of stuff and find for it a new home? Well maybe not for that garage-locked pervert, but for most things that are, you bet. That’s especially true of all those extra diabetes supplies, because who knows, somewhere out there might be a like-minded, minimalist hoarder wondering what on earth they’re going to do with all their mysteriously tubeless infusion sets.

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