Scarlet O’Hara says, “After all, tomorrow is another day.” I don’t have to think about that until tomorrow. Or the next day. Or ever. If no one remembers and I conveniently forget, I don’t have to ever think about that. If life were so forgiving and lenient to permit such amnesia. I could sweep under the carpet the bothersome little issues. I could stuff into a closet the worrisome. I could relegate to the garage that which I simply wish to avoid, a veritable collection of discarded relics that once made demands of me. Except I am not a lumper. I am a sorter. I am not clutter blind. I cannot let accumulate the refuse that can glut a life and an smooth existence. I have to declutter. I must discard and file away. I am not a pack rat, literally or psychologically. And those things that clutter a easily distracted mind must be addressed before the log jam handicaps the simplest of choices like which shoes to wear or whether to go get the mail. The accumulation of crap can choke a life, paralyzing movement and progress is stymied. But I sure like the notion that I can claim the vapors, bat my eyelashes and swoon, feigning incapacitation. The catch-22 is that when I am over my drama queen display, all that crap is still waiting to be addressed. Being Scarlett is a fanciful notion but impractical. And in the end, Scarlett has to dig deep into herself and muster her strength to take care of all that stuff she had hoped to be rescued from as she played helpless. I am simply a terrible actress.