At 25, when I was diagnosed with acute anxiety disorder and general panic syndrome, part of my treatment was to avoid the news and to cease reading the daily papers. I could not tune into cnn for decades; the Kid’s other parent forbade me from watching Andre Agassi (or anyone, but mostly Andre) play tennis. Even such prosaic deliveries as “Morning Edition” were off-limits. I had learned not to concern myself with things occurring outside my personal boundary. It’s a cursed life for someone as curious about the world as me.

The treatment I found by happenstance last year has delivered me from my journalistic malaise. I watch cnn, Headline News, and I read a lot about what’s going on in the universe…stupid things like voting Pluto out as a planet…amazing things like this most recent Democratic campaign…gentle things about orphaned kittens being suckled by a surrogate doggy mom.

There are days when I can’t get enough news. I click too many links on cnn.com and end up reading some of the strangest stories ever. Like the one about the 76 year-old Betty Neumar who may have killed five husbands, or the gut-splicer about the police who shot a man because he wouldn’t stop beating on a toddler (who died).

This newfound familiarity with the best and worst of Humanity is a zero-calorie indulgence of epic proportions. I don’t know if this is what it feels like to step out of political or artistic suppression but it sure feels that way. Like the prison that was my anxiety has grown tired of holding me captive and has paroled me to learn and grow and challenge and validate my place in a bigger, weirder universe.

Which brings me to today. I clicked a link from cnn.com and landed on their partner site with Time.com. The story that confronted me was titled, “How to Live With Just 100 Things.”

There’s a guy out there who wants me to give up my stuff! WTF?! He can’t even figure out if a pair of shoes is thing one or things two, and he’s torn between owning two pairs of jeans as opposed to three. Like I need that kinda person as my mentor. My favorite part of the article is about the waitress from Chicago who, despite parting with 15 pairs of shoes, declares (rightfully so) that “All my shoes count as one item.” Take that, Issigri.

Can you imagine what would happen if we all pared down to 100 items apiece? Costco would go out of business. All those self-storage palaces of 10′x10′ plywood cubicles would shut down. Dealers would be hard-pressed to hold an estate sale of any worth because you didn’t give them much to work with. The economy would collapse uncontrollably; consumerism as we know it would go the way of the dinosaur.

More importantly, could I really survive with only 100 things? Could you?

OK, so in my kitchen, maybe. One range, one refrigerator, one coffee-maker, one sink, one dishwasher, one set of pots and pans. Forty Pizza Hut fridge magnets (mom is hooked on cheese pizza), the number of the nearest mobile waiter service, and six jumbo boxes of dishwasher soap I will never use because I rarely cook. Cripes, a formal eight-piece dinner setting is more than 100 items…I lose. Can’t do it.

Bathroom? Nope. Four different hair conditioners are a must, I’m sorry. So are all those lovely sample-sized sample thingies that let me, you know, sample stuff. Lose again.

Bedroom? ROFLOLWTFBBQKKTHXBAI I so lose. 40 pairs of shoes FTL already. I think I may have close to 200 articles of clothing (mostly concert T-Shirts), the Kid is running very close behind. Tank tops in twelve different shades of blue? Hell yeah. They need to match the shoes, dahling! And the makeup…dear Lord…I must have thirty different shades of eye shadow to match the friggin’ tank tops. Ask Broos how often he sees me wear makeup =P And the EARRINGS! Don’t…get…me…started…on…my…CD…collection…

I need to move soon and the anxiety is getting to me. If I did own only 100 things then moving would be a snap. Sadly, I own thousands of things like most people - and this is after divesting myself of a substantial amount of stuff when I moved from Hawaii! Now my angst also rests on the fact that I must contend with my inability to steer clear of my things: my belongings, my wantsies, my junk. That man in the article, he’s nearly down to 100 items. I’m stressed because he can do it and I cannot. Or will not. Or whatever. So I will pay hundreds of dollars to move my crap from one point to the next, unable or unwilling to cull even an ancient scrap of paper from my hording hands. What if it doesn’t fit? How will I organize it? Which of these things will fit in a plastic box under my bed?

So where can I strike a balance, if there is one to strike? How can I take the pressure off, now that it has been inexorably thrust upon me? Is this article enough to justify another month of Xanax?!? WHAT AM I TO DO?

Oh. Yeah.

I can stop following the news again.