I think I know how Evil Knievel feels the night before a big stunt. I don’t think I will sleep much tonight. Tomorrow I will don gloves, a mask and my grubbiest clothes. I’d wear a miner’s helmet if I had one. I will then venture into a dark, dangerous area filled with dreadful things. I’m going to clean my garage.

It’s not the black widows I fear or even the copious cobwebs. It’s the 50-pound sacks of cement, really heavy tool boxes and other crippling items I may encounter. I have this niggling fear that I will be overcome by a landslide of twice-used camping gear, old boxes of files and photos and half-filled paint cans.

Bringing some order to that chaotic space is a task I try to manage at least once a year, but with my children out of the nest, I am missing the forced labor pool I used to depend on. This gives the task a new level of potential back pain. On the other hand, with no one at hand to plead that I keep this or demand that not be thrown away, I have a free hand in the clearing-out department. Now that puts a smile on my face. Once I start, I will not be thwarted and that means I may tend to overdo. It’s worth it just to see the garage floor for a day, but the price in sore muscles gets higher each year.

Why tomorrow? It contains that rare window of free time. If I start at dawn, stay very focused and very determined, and drink a large, triple latte, I should be victorious before the sun goes down. Will I be able to get out of bed the next day? The odds are still being calculated on that.

I’m not completely certain how the garage fills up after each cleaning. I’d like to blame gremlins or poltergeists, but there are clear signs of human intervention. Much of it is sawdust and leftover bits from my husband’s “I-can-fix-that” home projects. A goodly portion is stuff my daughter has decided she either doesn’t want or won’t wear anymore. In truth, even I tend to drop things out there for lack of a better place to store them.

The bottom line is, it’s function over form in my husband’s world, which means I have finally learned to give up my expectations of making the cover of Better Homes & Garages. In fact, I have given up the expectation of ever getting a car into our garage. He sees putting things away in a designated spot as just an unnecessary use of his limited time. Using the only optimistic spark I possess, I will designate a spot anyway, and for a few weeks post-cleaning, I will actually find things on the first try. It is bliss.

This year, as I gather up the flotsam and jetsam from his workbench and beyond, I am considering pulling together my very own toolbox and hiding it somewhere he’ll never look — maybe with the cleaning products or perhaps in the dishwasher.

Meanwhile, I am gathering up my heavy-duty work gloves, my dust mask, the leaf blower, brooms and lots of trash bags. Things will move. Trash will be separated from treasure. Junk will roll. For me, it has all the catharsis of an ancient Greek play.

And if someone wanders by at just the right time and thinks I am having a garage sale, he or she might get the bargain of their life.