When I moved into my now husband’s one-bedroom condo, he had framed art on the walls, plenty of real dishes and glassware in the cabinets, and actual bedroom curtains. It was nice and honestly not that messy—except for the dining table. There was a literal mountain of unopened mail on top, still in rubber-banded bundles. That’s right, he hadn’t even looked at it. When I sorted and shredded it all, I found bills addressed to an old girlfriend who had lived there almost a decade earlier.