I am not a hoarder.

My name is Regan, and I am not a hoarder. My counters reveal glimpses of polished tile, and if you give me ten minutes, I can clear the kitchen table off to feed four.  I come from a long line of non-hoarding Cartwrights. Sure, we save things, but they're important things. My grandma's house is a house of love and giving. It never stops giving. She died in 1998.  Last year, inexplicably, I discovered her 1986 fishing license in my kitchen drawer. I am not a hoarder.

Grandma's house tendered a box of colored knee high stockings (invaluable for making doll clothes. I think.); fifty years worth of newspaper clippings--everything from the grand opening of a drugstore to pictures of my now husband's soccer team (we didn't start dating until after Grandma died--she may have been psychic); doll parts; paints; thread; sewing notions; and canned goods (fish heads from 1989 and pickles from 1992). I am not a hoarder.

This weekend, I faced facts: I may  have hoarding tendencies. Everyone saves "stuff"--the things that don't go anywhere but that we don't want to see go. Old t-shirts from senior year; trophies; notes from best friends--important stuff.

But my stuff revealed tendencies and could be categorized. Hoarding tendencies. Those that lean heavily in the direction of paper goods. Boxes, to be exact. Under the bed, a lovely Laura Ashley box--just ripe for regifiting. The closet--every single wedding gift box we received. They're sturdy, and perfect for a move. (I kept those).

The ultimate--that little Tiffany blue box. And, of course, shoe boxes, shirt boxes, a round canister style box! I revisited the discard pile and rescued the canister box.  What was I thinking?!

I am not a hoarder. But I save boxes. And gift bags. At least 150 of them. And did you know that you can iron and reuse tissue paper? It's true. I've done it. And kept it.

I am not a techie. But I save technology. Tape decks. VCRs. Gaming systems. Cell phone chargers. At least 37 coaxial cables of varying lengths. Because I might need one someday.

I cleaned. I purged. We took three carloads--and I mean carloads--of "stuff" to the thrift store. I itemized. On six legal sheets. I also hoard office supplies apparently. I returned a bag of binder clips and pens to my office today.

I ripped of the bandaid that covered that little piece of my soul that required me to hang on to my bar exam study file and my law school outlines--some of which are a hazard given that the law has changed at least 3 times since I took Civil Procedure classes. I kept the letter telling me I had passed the bar exam. Just in case.

And with the purging came the inevitable--a feeling that I had spent three days on a celebrity style juice cleanse. Slightly empty. Exhausted. Needing a chocolate bar with ice cream, whipped cream, and nuts on top.

But this morning, I visited my closets. They shine. They are organized. They hold the things most dear to me: Christmas decorations for a magical season with my baby(ies); three sacred t-shirts (Disney World--age 13; Six Flags--age 6; and a t-shirt sent by my grandma in Missouri--with my name on it--age 4); and yes, a few boxes--Tiffany blue (a ring I bought in New York with my own money--historic), and a round box (perfect for making a toddler drum on a rainy day).

I am not a hoarder. When I heard the garbage truck this morning, I buried my head under my pillow--despite all urges to run to the curb in my nightgown shouting, "Wait! Don't take the Laura Ashley! It will be just perfect to wrap a tie at Christmas!" I may have hoarding tendencies. My name is Regan, and I am telling you, I am not a hoarder. (But, I am a Cartwright.)