Wednesday, January 15, 2014


After four hours of digging through my stuff at my parents house, I feel as torn as my college freshman copy of Hamlet- which I debated keeping or finally removing from my shelf.
Four hours was spent doing very little other than sorting small amounts of crap into many piles. I’m talking every single bracelet, bead, and hair band that I’ve acquired in my pack-rat-esque adolescence, picked up, and placed into: sell, donate, or recycle pile…and very occasionally into the trash.
I’m trying to ween off the last option because one of my new year’s resolutions is to write a blog about not throwing anything away for an entire year. I hope to chronicle the annoyance of finding adequate recycling, the compulsion of trying to use little things in art projects or reinventing useless crap into something practical.
But even putting things into simple piles wasn’t easy. I have an inner conflict with almost everything I encounter. I’m battling a lifelong ”must-keep-for-later” mentality with a new realization of how happy I have been with so little. My fiancĂ© has effectively paired down his belongings to fit into a couple of backpacks. He brags about this, rightfully so, but then comes to me whenever he needs glue, safety pins, or the perfect size container for something. I similarly pride myself that I have everything we need without us having to go buy something new. Years ago I resolved to not purchase anything new…with the exception of underwear or socks or things that you just…don’t buy used.
So, two weeks after arriving at my parents house, I’m still knee deep in my old stuff, I’ve finally got some listings on eBay, some stuff for a Craigslist pile, and I’ve taken 3 loads to be donated, plus have a bag to give to the homeless (with coats, socks, etc). Although it has been arduous and at times inefficient, I’m feeling much closer to my simple life ideal.
This is the week we hopefully find out for sure about the future job. Only then can I actually begin packing things up and gettin’ things ready.

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