I recently cleaned out my sock drawer, an overdue task that I hadn’t reached the appropriate level of boredom to tackle in a number of years. It also served as a reminder that I’m absolutely terrible at estimating just how useful a range of items will be in the future.
The top drawer of the walnut chest where my socks reside also has a habit of collecting an assortment of other items — loose change, notes on scraps of paper, cable clamps, buttons, stray ammunition — that either fell from the flat surface above or were “temporarily” stored for later.
There’s also a closet, basement, garage, shed and the center console of my truck holding valuable artifacts of various usefulness. I know I’m not alone in this affliction because the desire to stow away has a cherished history in my family. The paternal side at least.