I have a lot of stuff. For the past few days, I have been going through everything I have collected over my 27 years – which at the moment happily resides in my parents’ garage. I find myself laughing over old photographs and memories, all the while swiftly dividing the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. The biggest task was separating my books. Oh my gosh, the books. I had six crates of books, easily, and then I kept finding other books among my other boxes. I’ve got the number down to about half, mainly of classics with a few contemporary titles thrown in. Of course, it created one of those moments where you start making ridiculous promises that as soon as you get everything set up in your new place, you’re going to read some of the more neglected tomes that you forgot you had. Poppycock! Won’t happen. But I can still pretend, can’t I?
The part of all the moving that bugged me the most was going through large boxes, and finding only two or three items worth keeping. One box in particular has been with me since college, and it’s a pretty whopping big box. I retained a total of three items from that container. Which means I have been lugging this huge box from place to place, up three flights of stairs, down to a basement apartment, and all along, I didn’t need any of it. Talk about dead weight. Kind of disgusts me to think about it.
In the end, I feel good about releasing myself from some of my “stuff.” There’s no way I would have fit it in my Ford Escape, but even if I could, would I really need it? I’m starting fresh in California, and there is some baggage, both literal and figurative, that I want to leave behind.