I have a theory that somewhere in America there is a warehouse containing the nation's entire supply of clutter.
Every few months, workers box it up and redistribute it among our homes. That's the only explanation I have for how quickly stuff multiplies.
One day the hall closet is reasonably civilized. The next time you open the door, three tote bags, a vacuum attachment you've never seen before, and what appears to be an extension cord from 1987 fall on your head.
Naturally, we know what to do. We buy storage bins. Clear ones. Stackable ones. Under-the-bed ones. Decorative baskets. Drawer organizers. Shoe organizers. Containers with little chalkboard labels so we can identify the stuff we apparently cannot identify by looking through the clear plastic.
I love organizing products as much as anyone. There is something truly satisfying about walking through the storage aisle and imagining the person I could become if only I owned 14 matching containers.
She knows where everything is. Her linen closet is color-coordinated. She has never stuffed a fitted sheet into a pillowcase and called it folded.
Unfortunately, buying containers doesn't make us organized. Sometimes it just gives our...