Tonight Shawn asked me if I knew where my current teacher retirement information booklet was (we are trying to figure out, with the help of our financial advisor, how we can retire... now). I looked inside the filing cabinet where I thought it might be and was distracted, no horrified, by what the inside of the filing cabinet looks like.
Back around, oh, say 2001, I stopped doing things like opening bank statements, reading insurance letters, and filing my own taxes. In my books, that's what husbands are for. They're supposed to do the horrible financial thinking that no one wants to do. Shawn does do that, but he isn't, apparently, so good at filing the paperwork.
The filing cabinet (I swear I haven't looked in there since we moved here in 2007) was stacked full of unopened envelopes from our investment company, and a plethora of other bedraggled looking papers haphazardly stuffed in every which direction. No file folders, no system.
I used to have a system. Like I said, I used to do my own stuff. Last millennium. I kind of remember how to file stuff. I pulled out everything, opened all the unopened envelopes, threw away the tax returns from the 1990s, and created a dozen file folders and alphabetized them. And put papers in them. Ran all the old paper to the curb, all the private documents through the shredder. Just like that, an hour and a half later, peace was restored to the inside of my file cabinet, and I wanted Shawn to be excited, enthralled with my organizational skills. And I wanted him to feel the sense of relief that I feel that there is no longer any unopened mail clogging the track of the filing cabinet drawer. I showed him the neatly organized drawers, sorted, alphabetized, and labelled.
He said, Did you find that booklet?
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