I Don’t Want to Clean the Garage — And Here’s Why I’m Probably Doomed

Ah, the garage. That magical, cavernous space attached to our homes, ostensibly designed for cars, tools, and the occasional bag of potting soil — but which, in reality, serves as the final resting place for broken lamps, old sports gear, animal cages and the mysterious box simply labeled “cords.”

Let’s be clear: I want a clean garage. Truly, I do. I’ve imagined it many times — a gleaming, organized shrine to adulting, with labeled bins, a pegboard of perfectly hung tools, and enough floor space to actually… you know, park a car. I can practically smell the fresh concrete and see myself gliding into that space, windows down, wind in my hair, like the queen of suburbia.

But here’s the backstory. Since 1978 — yes, 1978 — my garage and I have been locked in a toxic, codependent relationship. In all those years of marriage, we’ve only had a clean garage four times. And no, that’s not because we hit a sudden burst of motivation or Marie Kondo paid us a surprise visit. No, we only achieved a clean garage when selling a house — meaning we cleared it out for other people. Four fresh, beautiful, sparkly garages… delivered on a silver platter to strangers who drove away smiling as we waved goodbye, standing next to a U-Haul crammed with the debris we had no idea where to put.

Meanwhile, back in the present, my family enjoys their clean, orderly garages like smug little domestic royalty. Oh, the pictures I see of clean, organized garages: “Look, we can fit two cars in here and the bikes!” My DNA practically craves a clean garage — apparently it skipped me and ran straight to the next generation.

Now, sure, I could point fingers. Believe me, I have a carefully curated mental list of the culprits who helped pile up this glorious disaster. I could name names. I could hand out medals for “Most Boxes Dumped Without Sorting” or “Champion of Leaving Random Junk by the Door.” But here’s the kicker: I am an able-bodied adult. I have arms. I have legs. I own trash bags. I could own this garage situation myself.

And yet… here we are. Overwhelm and procrastination have pulled ahead in the race, and I’m cheering them on from the sidelines, glass of iced tea in hand. Meanwhile, the garage remains a monument to Good Intentions Never Acted Upon.

Let’s take inventory, shall we? There’s the holiday decor (sure, I need that), gardening stuff (okay, fine, I touch it sometimes), a few tools (yes, definitely keep those), and kitchen overflow essentials (because who doesn’t need three extra Crock-Pots, just in case?). But the rest? A jumbled museum of “why did we even buy this?” And then the sentimental remnants of a business closed years ago.

Is there hope? Possibly. There’s a tiny part of me — usually active around midnight after watching home makeover shows — that believes I can conquer the chaos. That one day, armed with garbage bags, donation boxes, and sheer stubbornness, I will emerge victorious. But then the sun rises, and that energy magically disappears.

What’s truly motivating me now isn’t the dream of a clean garage. It’s the dread of people standing at my funeral, whispering, “She was a smart woman… but damn, that garage.” I mean, sure, I won’t hear it. But still — that’s not the legacy I want to leave.

So here’s the plan. Or at least the fantasy of a plan. Maybe I’ll tackle one box. Maybe I’ll set a timer. Maybe I’ll call in reinforcements or bribe myself with cake. Or maybe I’ll just keep writing newsletters about it to delay the inevitable.

In the meantime, if you need me — I’ll be inside, thinking very hard about cleaning the garage… tomorrow.

Julie Bolejack, MBA