The flowers are blooming, the sun is shining (almost), Easter came early, and the calendar says it’s spring. That means it’s time to clean the skeletons out of my closet—there aren’t many since my apartment is so small and storage space is at a premium—and get a little dusty with some old fashion Spring Cleaning, Seven Deadly Sins style. Feel free to do the same. It’s that time of year after all, and a little guilt never hurt anyone.

I started with sloth. It’s non-threatening, laidback almost, and for me, it’s easy to fall into. I admit that I haven’t really worked out since middle school when I used to tap-dance. I’m lazy physical activity-wise, but I’m so busy with work and school that I’m lucky if I fit in a couple episodes of Flavor of Love. And maybe a little Hills. Last week I discovered that my cable provider has jazzercise videos I can watch anytime. And by “jazzercise” I mean Carmen Electra’s striptease workouts. I gave it a try, and let me tell you, I felt both ridiculous and healthy. I realized that there were better videos than Carmen’s and gave them a try, too. I was sore for two days. I have now bought myself little weights and am dedicated to working out a few times a week. A New Year’s resolution in April. How about that?

Pride reminds me of Jane Austen, so it’s hard to think of it as too negative. I probably have some things to tend to, though, despite my fascination with Mr. Darcy. Most notably, I take a good hour and a half to get ready in the morning. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, but I do know that I stare at the clothes in my closet for a good ten minutes trying to decide what to put on. I’m sure there are other people who are worse, but it’s still embarrassing. I’m no Jackie O, but sweats and Uggs do not count as getting dressed. Let’s all just admit one thing: ladies, you know who you’re dressing up for, and it’s typically not boys. Stop looking each other’s outfits up and down and judging. But be honest with your friends when they leave the house in ruffle socks. That way we can all feel a little bit better about ourselves without slaving away with our blowdryers and eyelash curlers.

Lust? None of your business. My escapades are not fit for these pages.

Am I greedy? It’s like asking if I’m American. The answer is yes. But I do not, nor will I ever, own a Hummer. I just really dislike sharing alcohol at parties or clubs unless I’m hosting or I plan ahead. Then, by all means, drink up. But usually if I bring my very lady-like flask to an event, I want what’s in it. It only fits six ounces, after all. That’s very selfish, I know, but it’s not like I drink Popov’s. I wonder if there’s a self-help book on how to overcome anxiety about sharing moderately-priced alcoholic beverages. It’s a real problem.

Moving on, we arrive at wrath, or overwhelming PMS. This also applies to bar fights, tire slashing, and TP-ing your high-school ex’s house. I’ve had no part in any of the aforementioned activities. But I do know that my family gets to bear the brunt of my stress. If I were to talk to strangers the way I talk to the people I love when life isn’t smooth, I’d have a broken nose most of the time. I think people find it easier to take their anger out on their loved-ones since they have to continue loving us, but it’s not very nice. I love them, too, and I should act like it more often.

Envy. Very natural, I think. We all want a piece, or slightly more, of what other people have. Cars with intact bumpers and no bird poop on the hood, apartment complexes without old women who dream of being cat ladies, jobs that pay in dollars and not “a sense of pride in your work,” people who don’t resort to cynisim to survive. All pretty cool. Oh, and see the above entry about ruffle socks. Though I laugh on the outside, I secretly want a pair.

Last and definitely not least is gluttony. What a fatty. Most people think of food, and though I’m not saying I’m not addicted to those salt-and-pepper Kettle chips, I have bigger problems. When I’m stressed out, when I’m cold, when I need some time alone, I take a shower. And it’s not really a shower so much as it’s just standing in the running water. Old shower heads, like the one in my apartment, can put out more than twenty gallons in five minutes. That’s a lot of waste going into my fit-throwing. I think better with water drowning out the neighbor’s music, but wasting resources isn’t helping anything. Especially my water bill. Or the whales.

And that is all. I’m not hiding anything. Don’t believe me? That’s nice, because lying isn’t on the list of Deadlies.