A Minute to Collect Myself

My husband has control issues. It's the one major thing we fight about and it creeps into all aspects of his life. He won't let things go if he knows he's "right", he has to be involved on all decisions which involve him, or even if they don't, and, most importantly, if he has one of it -he must have them all.
I used to make fun of him for his OCD-like collections: Simpsons figures, GI joes, Transformers, Masters of the Universe, Metallica records, comics and more fill our basement and walls, shelves and windows, rooms and even bathrooms in order for him to feel happy, complete and in control.
Not that I'm innocent of having the odds and ends of collectabiles either. I have quite a bit of Harry Potter merchandise, some special Barbies, a few Buffy and Angel dolls and stands and a large wardrobe of designer duds, handbags and shoes. But do I have to have them? Surely not.
But then I started cleaning out our downstairs closet in hopes of having some loot to sell this weekend at my parent's big Yard Sale. I tugged and lugged, cursed and sweated my way to the back and then turned to look at what I'd dragged out. A pile, roughly as tall as me and as big around as my extended redneck family loomed before me.
It was all Christmas wrapping paper.
And bows.
And balls.
And ribbon.
And tags.
Oh. My. GAWD!!!
I tried organizing the mound, but it only made it worse - and prettier. I wondered aloud about possible wrapping paper support groups. Should I just give up and ask Santa to bring me a wrapping paper wall organizer? Nah, no way my name was accidentally moved off the naughty list.
I stuffed some horrendous old decor items, curtains, fake foliage, and a few other odds and ends into bags and lugged them up the stairs all the while ignoring the alluring pile of bedazzled paper.
Temptation behind me I then searched the bathroom for useless items like footbaths and hair product gimmicks (a hair dryer with a brush attached!!!! Wow!!!) when I noticed another pile forming.
Headbands. Plastic ones, fabric ones, small and big ones, sparkly ones, classic ones, old and new ones. Piles upon piles of strayhairkeepers were being pulled from every drawer and alcove in the bathroom.
And I had more.
In my suitcase.
I quickly shoved them in to a bottom drawer but stopped first to admire a rather pleasing pink and gray number in thick flannel.
I vowed then and there never to bring up my hubs crazy collections again.
I'd be silent, supportive and sweet, even for it seemed that I, too, collect things. So I shall bite my tongue... for one whole day. Whew! Marriage is full of sacrifices! ;)