The Move, Part 3: I'll never let go, Jack

Packing is a frickin' struggle.

For the past five years, I've been in my "big girl" apartment, all by myself, living some version of the dream. Which basically means I've had a lot of time to gather / hoard a lot of stuff.

Knowing that the move was coming, I quickly brought in reinforcements. Several gal pals took shifts coming to hang out as I began sorting through my clothes, books, movies, etc. (Thanks, ladies!!) I poured out cocktails and story after story about why this tank top was an important piece of my soul, or why I really needed to keep that panda notebook. They generously doled out sympathetic smiles, while ripping things out of my hands and placing them in boxes marked for Goodwill. We reminisced over items from shared memories and hashed out all the very latest gossip. As they departed, I crammed several items in their arms, pleading that they save me from myself and take my things.

But that was weeks ago.

Long past what should've been the "sorting" and "paring down" phase, it's now reached the "holy shit, we're on the brink of eviction and not fully packed yet" phase. The beau is officially out of his place and I'm officially out over the holiday weekend. And while I tried my best to shuttle boxes over in advance from my current place, there still seems to be so much left. I even threw a beatnik eviction party to try and get rid of some of my booze, just so we wouldn't have to pack it. To no avail. If we all were 21 again, there wouldn't have been a drop left. But as it were, my new neighbors think I'm a total lush with all the clinkies I've been toting into the place.

The real issue is of course: why do I have all this stuff?

Because I'm a sentimental hag who clings desperately to small tokens of the past? Because I've been too lazy to get rid of things over the years? Because I just love finding and collecting treasures (it was on SALE! Huzzah consumerism!)? Yeah, maybe. Maybe all that. But one constant theme, of all the things, was the story. Despite my having a piss poor memory, each and every single thing I have has a story behind it. I think part of me is worried that if I throw the item away, I'll forget its story. That's the sappy sad side of things. (#firstworldproblems - is that still a thing?)

BUT these were the flats that I wore all around Europe during my semester abroad.
These flats have BEEN places, I can't just discard them!

The other side of things is: who gives a hoot about the story of a broken glitter fish necklace and WHY do I have climbing wall panels? Am I ever going to BUILD a climbing wall? Where?? In my living room? And is that broken fish necklace going to help me magically have upper body strength so I can climb said wall? All signs point to... me with a bottle of wine and a hammer, adding climbing wall panels in my kitchen and then ripping off the drywall as I try to scale my pantry. So why risk it? Clearly I need to get rid of these panels for my own safety. And again... why do I even have them??*

I could be like those people who rockclimb as a hobby!

Basically, I love my things. Whether they make sense or not, I love them. I know all the wonderful benefits hat come out of minimalism and streamlining, but I'm just not there yet. Worse yet, when it comes to moving, I love packing. If there is a slot in a box that needs filling, I'll fill it with whatever I can find, even if it's something I was planning on getting rid of (sure, those forks will fit in amongst my raccoon plushies). Having several weeks to pack up / move has almost made it worse, because at this point, I don't remember what I decided to keep or not, or what's even in half the boxes that are already at the new place. And with how I jenga them together, the boxes are basically landmines when you do open them.

That's why I have my final line of defense against the clutter: the long suffering beau who is my new roomie. It's all going to come down to him as I unpack each box. He'll need to point out the nonsense items and put his foot down on me discarding things or begrudgingly give in as I explain to him the value of a giant martini glass and place it lovingly in the cupboards of our new home.
(He'll thank me later on that martini glass, I just know it!)

Hagrid is on board with using a laundry basket to transport all my unnecessary junk.
He always supports me. Thanks, pal!

Click here for Part One: In which I build pillow forts and refuse to wear pants.
Click here for Part Two: In which I get half-eaten by wild dogs.




*The answer is that I used to work custodial at a middle school to make college cash during the summer and they were sample panels that were getting discarded, so I took them. Because in my mind, I thought, "With a little spray paint, these could be really artsy wall decor for my adult apartment I'll have some day!" Taking no account to the fact that they're heavy as all hell and won't adhere to a wall with the standard sticky mounting tape - since real adult apartments don't let real adults use nails.