I am married to a clothing geek. She's in to costuming. She's into making clothes - both for everyday and occasional use. She's also a packrat. So, all of that clothing - all the attendant purses, shoes, and other mix-n-match "accessories" - builds up over time. It all has to go somewhere.
In our house, that "somewhere" is the front bedroom on the top floor of our house. Technically, we live in a two-bedroom townhouse. In reality, we live in a one-bedroom townhouse that has a giant, walk-in closet with an attached full bathroom.
Now, this use of bedroom as walk-in closet isn't why men aren't meant to go in there. No, it's the manner in which that closet is (*ahem*) "organized". To best describe it would be to imagine what an entire mall subjected to an 9.4 earthquake and then blown-up would look like. THAT is the assault that awaits the eyes of anyone that opens the door to that room.
Given my austere/spartan sensibilities, stumbling upon the door to that room when it's in an open state is ...Jarring. It's like looking into the mouth of hell or madness (not sure there's an actual difference between the two ...or that room).
I tend to try to treat that room in much the way that Slartibartfast used the SEP field to hide his craft in one of the later books of the Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy series. I try to just not look at it and I try to not even see it out of the corner of my eye.
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