I know, I know—my last blog told everyone to make room for peace. But while doing some mental deep-cleaning, I stumbled upon a box I’m simply not ready to donate. It contains my ‘Vintage Grudges.’ My prized possession? A 2018 standoff with a neighbor over post-July 4th debris. Spoiler alert: They weren’t our fireworks, but the grudge? That’s all mine.
Vintage Grudge (circa 2018)
As I opened the slightly beat-up box and caught a glimpse of my Top Vintage Grudge, I knew I’d have to make room on the permanent shelf for this one. Pulling it out, the warm July sun smacked me in the face all over again. I could hear her shrill, high-pitched voice filling the driveway and see the look on my poor kid’s face—just trying to get into the car for work while being ambushed.
The accusations? Firework debris in her yard. Blah, blah, blah.
How did I handle this display of pure, Karen-flavored audacity?
First, using my best Sherlock Holmes voice, I directed her attention to the neighbor’s driveway, which was practically a crime scene of evidence. Next, I made sure she clearly understood that all complaints should be directed to the Parental Department, not the Children’s Department. As she began her rebuttal, I suddenly experienced a ‘technical difficulty’—my front door mysteriously shut, cutting her off mid-sentence. Oops.
Social Mortification
I was doing so well with the whole ‘Unburdened Heart’ mission. But as I tried to get back on track, I stubbed my toe on a heavy, overstuffed box labeled: Social Mortification: 2012 – Present.
Curiosity (and a touch of self-sabotage) got the better of me. I sliced through the duct tape, and yep—there they were, right on top. Every single time I’ve confidently waved at a complete stranger… only to realize they were actually waving at someone behind me.
There is a specific kind of INFJ soul-death that happens when you have to turn that confident wave into a fake hair-adjustment or a frantic search for a non-existent bee. Why am I keeping this one? It serves as a survival reminder – always wait for the third wave with confirmed eye to eye contact before lifting your arm. This box serves as a tactical defense mechanism.
The Squirm Files
As I began dusting cobwebs from the light fixture, my eye caught an overloaded file cabinet shoved against the back wall. It was labeled The Squirm-Files. This wasn’t a box; this was a curated, professional archive of every time I’ve ever tripped over a flat surface, ran into a door frame or said ‘You too!’ to the TSA agent who told me to have a nice flight.
I have tried to donate this file cabinet full of goodies to the memory trash but most keep bouncing back. The TSA agent memory has a special place now living in a decorative jar on the mental mantelpiece next to my top all time tongue-slip of the century.
The Happy Mess
I walked into this mental attic with a stack of donation bags and a dream of a minimalist, Zen-like interior. I wanted a brain that looked like a high-end spa—all white linens and soft flute music.
But as I look around at my ‘Squirm-Files’ and my ‘Vintage Grudges,’ I realize that these boxes aren’t just clutter. They are the souvenirs of a life actually lived. The Karen-showdown taught me to stand my ground. The awkward waves taught me humility (and to keep my hands in my pockets). Even the TSA agent ‘You too!’ reminds me that I’m at least trying to be polite while my brain is buffering.
So, for now, the broom is going back in the closet. The 2018 grudge gets to keep its spot on the shelf, and the squirmy memories can stay in their cabinet.
Because let’s be honest: a perfectly clean heart is probably a little boring. And if there’s one thing this roller coaster ride has taught me, it’s that I’d much rather be a ‘confused mess’ than a ‘boring’ one.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go practice my non-committal ‘is that person waving at me?’ head nod. Just in case.
