I’ve been surrounded by boxes and piles of junk lately, more so piles then boxes. I am doing a major clean and purge of my life “things” (I’m moving)
SIDEBAR: I love my stuff, and my junk but it’s just “junk” and it has had a great life with me, and will make someone else very happy, and stylish “to-boot”
As I’ve been in awe of my collection of things I have noticed something very different than in any other move I have ever made. I don’t have any relationship outcasts. No boy leftovers, no guy junk, or man tokens.
Last time I went “home home” my closet was still filled with boy leftovers: teddybears, pictures, and all sorts of crap. And it seems like every time I have moved I have had lots of guy-junk to purge from my life, and this time: nothing.
Ok, that is a lie. I have three things.
I have a pile of CD’s from “bandboy”s band. Some are even unopened and by some I pretty much mean all of them. I count this as one thing, although it’s more like 8 things. I don’t know why I have them, why I even keep them, and why on earth I’ve moved them to different apartments (even a different country). Although, when he mailed me the latest CD I had a nice little pile to add it to.
And I have two shirts.
Now I know what you are thinking, that I must be one of those girls who takes things from guys. You know the ones who take sweatshirts and t-shirts: the girl who collects t-shirts from guys to sleep in.
FACT: I’d rather not sleep in a t-shirt.
But thing is I don’t really do that. Why would I want someone’s dirty clothes when I have my own perfectly clean (and even dirty) clothes? But I sat the other night staring at two: a hoddie and a sweater. Such ‘girl’ things to take from guys I know, right.
But the fact is, I didn’t really take them. I kept them. I didn’t let them go when everything else went. Last time I really sat down and cleaned out my life’s ‘junk’ I did it for two. It was mine, and it was his, and I cleaned out and flushed so much away.
Just like my giveaway pile now, I got ride of so much that was drenched in memories.
Now it sounds strange but I can recall memories with everything I have, unless I really have no clue where it came from. I know where “we” have been together: my stuff and me.
I remember the time I got my heel stuck in a sidewalk grate and walked almost a block without a shoe(the pretty black with purple top Prada ones). Or the green and pink Jacob solder bag I trekked allover France. Everything has a memory, a place, and a story.
And then I have these two shirts. I have no idea why I kept these shirts. It is a plain grey cotton sweater that even though I have grown in size I still swim in it, and a black (but really looks navy) hoodie with nothing on it, warnout cuffs and missing drawstring.
I have no memories attached to these items. I have no idea where they were purchased, or even when they were worn. Yet, these were the two things I decided would help me remember someone: the person who owned them.
Sometimes it isn’t “things” that we remember. We remember an experience, a feeling, and even a sensation.
I remember France, and that trip, and the friends I was with, how much I laughed, and all the things we did. The bag didn’t give me that. I remember the great night out I had with an amazing friend when I happen to lose my shoe.
It’s never been about the shoes, the bags, the coats, and even the glasses.
I remember a boy that I loved, not the clothes that he owned.