For the love of piles

I am not a dirty person. I like spills cleaned up immediately, and I think it's gross when leftover food gets the corners of the sink or counter crusty.

But just because I am a clean person does not mean I am a "neat" person. I appreciate a nice file folder as much as the next guy. Over the course of my life, however, I have discovered that piles hold a special place in my heart.

I really, really like piles.

Exhibit A

This was SUPPOSED to be a box exclusively for the maternity clothes JEB graciously loaned me, so as not to mix them up with my own wardrobe. It has instead become a dumping ground for clothes that have been worn briefly but aren't dirty enough to wash. I have emptied and reorganized this box no fewer than five times because of my love of piles.

Exhibit B

This is how I generally keep my shoes. I know: ridiculous. In my defense, most of my shoes come from Payless or Goodwill, so I'm not overly obsessed with keeping them in pristine condition. Still, it's messy and, I admit, childish. But I really, really like piles.

Exhibit C

Even my papers get a pile, or "stack" to use a nicer word. Though my old desk at the office looked like chaos to passersby, I knew what was in every stack and how to find a particular piece of paper in no time flat. I much prefer this to folders and a hanging file.

I used to think it was just laziness. But it's not. There is something in my psyche that prefers this method of storage. Is it the lifting and sifting? Is it the illusion of more "stuff" than is actually there? Is it just the chaos, plain and simple? I'm not sure. But the love is there, all the same. This is my ode to piles, which drive my husband crazy and which I've tried in vain to control.