I think the first time I noticed something was off was when I first walked into my apartment and found myself welcomed (granted, with open arms) by a family of sock monkeys. And while I appreciated the hospitality of these primates from within the walls of my own home, I had to wonder: who had given them a key?! A key exchange is a sure sign of a committed relationship but these monkeys hadn't even taken me on a first date, much less professed their undying love to me. But before they could fling their cotton poo at my face it hit me (an idea, not the poo): Arielle! I didn't even know she was dating!
Turns out they're just stuffed animals, but the point is: why does this 22-year-old woman have a gang of great-apes co-existing in our cubby-hole of a residence? Because she loves them, that's why. Reason enough for any toddler. And so I let it slide. I could live with them. We're all mammals, right?
It wasn't until I entered her bedroom five seconds later that I began to realize the truth about Ari: I am living with a hoarder.
Oddly enough, many of the most influential women in my life have been pack-rats.
My grandmother has toiletries from the early 70s still occupying the shelves of her vanity. Yes, vanity. Oh, it's expired by 20 years and is secreting foul odors? Put some Windex on it, I'm not putting a half-full can of Aqua Net to waste!
My sister still owns shoes from her middle school days. Who knows, maybe netted Chinese slippers are on their way back!
And now Ari.
The sock monkeys are only the beginning. In her cell, Arielle's got gadgets and gizmos a'plenty, whosits and whatsits galore. You want thing-a-mabobs? She's got 20. But who cares? No big deal...she wants mooooooooore.....Anyone catch that Little Mermaid reference? I know you did, Ari. It goes perfectly with your Little Mermaid pillow. Remember that from elementary school? Still chilling bedside. Word.
Arielle also maintains an obsession with the Olsen Twins to this day, evidenced by a box of every single magazine cover featuring MK & A since 1999. I'm not kidding. Joining them in the box is a folder (cover graced by Ashlee Simpson, thank you very much) packed to the gills with articles from the past five years about looking good naked and "how to make him hot". A task, by the way, that needs no accompanying article. The penis is a simple, simple organ.
I try to rationalize this need to retain old pages of magazines, which, mind you, haven't been read since they were ripped from their intended home-binding. Is my dear roomie especially concerned that print publications are dying and simply likes the feel of a good glossy on her fingertips? No, that's just me. Maybe Self and Women's Health are on the outs; does this genius know something that I don't??
I immediately panic, run to my room and begin violently ripping the best of October's Playgirl to shreds, stuffing the close-up shots of oiled ramrods into my memory box. Mid-orgasm I realize: I don't have a memory box, who am I kidding? That's what my brain is for. And another thing: if I want to see a naked human form in November, I can go out and get it in the very next edition of my favorite magazine, and I guarantee you it will be a similar anatomical sculpture to Mr. October.
Why then does Arielle not realize the same of her box of outdated articles?
I pride myself on my ability to really connect with people, and I love helping others with their issues. I think I give good advice, and usually I'm able to break through, regardless of the grip of old habits. This one though has proven difficult to crack.
As I looked around Arielle's room today for inspiration with this post, I saw years upon years of memories, and a woman that is at her absolute happiest buried in piles of papers, trinkets and small reminders of her past. And while I get the hives just thinking about having so much shit all up in my personal space, she wouldn't be my Ari without her two pill bottles filled with old fortunes. Hoard your little heart out, babygirl. I love you just the way you are.
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