Labelling

Late last week, a friend gave me one of the finest gifts I’ve ever received: free reign to use her label makers.

She must have underestimated how much I love putting labels on stuff. It has to be one of the most satisfying tasks known to humankind; how rewarding it is, after all, to almost instantly impose some organization on what might otherwise be chaos. Why is it that an intimidating box of papers feels more manageable, more approachable, with a custom-made label reading “Misc. Papers” slapped on it?

The world is indeed an easier, albeit not necessarily a better, place in which to exist when the people and things inhabiting it are divided into categories, whether positive, negative, or neutral. Mental shortcuts for the win!

As much as I love labelling my possessions, I love labelling myself even more, probably because I’m really, really good at it. Even if my self-labelled labels are inherently awful, at least I know what I’m dealing with.

I understand how ridiculous this will sound, but it was only recently that I realized that I’m able to change some of these labels—and that when I actually do so, my efforts usually lead to an enormous boost to my ever-lacking self-confidence. Hmmmm.

Some food for thought, anyway. I’ll start digesting it while I stick labels on every unlabelled surface in my surroundings.