I’m object-dependent. As the saying goes, they don’t serve me—I serve them. On bended knee, head bowed. Things are somewhat better than they used to be, but I still haven’t fully recovered.
If you asked me what my favorite object was, I’d be embarrassed, because I wouldn’t be able to choose between the ozone generator and the handheld garment steamer. I use one once a year, the other once a month—if I use them at all. Then there’s my flute, my jewelry, and the cheap pen that curls letters more beautifully than any other. I have about twenty of those, and if I see someone using one of them, I immediately appear with an ordinary pen and ask to swap.
I also have a twelve-centimeter doll. As a child, I wanted one so badly that I drew one and cut it out. I can still recall the feeling with which I loved that little scrap of paper. Her name was Lily. I was already over forty when I accidentally stumbled upon the perfect Lily in a toy store. She lives at the bottom of a drawer because I don’t want her to get dusty. Sometimes I take her out and brush her hair. I enjoy, briefly, the pleasure she gives me, then put her back. Maybe twice a year.
I probably don’t even need to say anything about the Friends DVD collection. Once, someone asked to borrow it. Ha. Very funny. Not a chance. Not that there’s anywhere left to put the discs anyway.
Besides these, there’s also a jewelry box I’m emotionally attached to. That, too, was a childhood dream—one that its owner eventually gave to me. I’ve treasured it ever since. It’s the crowning ornament of the upstairs hallway, and I regularly wipe the accumulated dust off it. And with that, we’ve come full circle. This is exactly why I dislike decorations and the clutter of objects that fill a space. I see them as dust collectors. Because that’s what they are. Especially in summer, when the calima adds an extra layer.
I manage my addiction with therapy. On the one hand, I don’t buy new objects. On the other, I lend my mineral jewelry to my daughter—if she asks. In fact, sometimes I’m the one who opens the locked cabinet for her and says,
“Would you like to wear one of these?”
Most of them are too grandmotherly for her anyway—she’s thirteen.
More than ten years ago, I lost consciousness and came to—more or less—in intensive care. A few months later, I underwent brain surgery. A year and a half vanished from my life. I didn’t remember my clothes. Or the films I’d seen. Even people disappeared from me without a trace. But the fact that there had been a large, pink, super-absorbent microfiber cloth in the kitchen—that I remembered. That’s what I was looking for. I knew I’d bought it in the same store, right after the small, dark blue, super-absorbent microfiber cloth.
I thought this was some kind of secret inner trait, something not particularly noticeable. Not long ago, however, I learned that it annoyed someone so much that for a while she referred to me only as “the steam-cleaner woman.”
Oh yes… those were the days when the steam cleaner was new. What an experience it was to discover its insane cleaning power and wide range of uses! I don’t regret a single minute I spent singing its praises.
Of course, I haven’t confessed everything. But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m aware of it, and I’m trying. Maybe one day I’ll be able to keep these objects in their proper place. Until then, I occasionally allow myself—secretly—to give in to the pleasure their possession brings. After all, you can walk a path suffering every step of the way—or you can walk it while feeling good. In the end, it’s not the distance that matters, but how we feel along the way.