I love my things. I’m saying this now so you can understand properlie. I just want you to know that I love my stuff.
When I was little, if I broke something on accident my mother would try very hard not to be angry with me. She would hug me and say that she knew that it wasn’t my fault. She was trying to teach me something important, which is that human beings are more important than things.
I’d like to say that I know this. That I understand this and that I always strive to remember the lesson that my mother worked so hard to teach me, but the truth the terrible terrible truth is that there are certain people that I might be more ok with losing than some of my things.
I don’t want anyone dead. Honest. And maybe this makes me a bad person. I get it. But I love my things. I name them. Cloud and Dasie, who I could never do without are reallie a 2004 Jeep Wrangler SE and my out of production mattress that is rediculouslie soft. There’s Freddie, my laptop, and if he’s around chances are good that I’m within five minutes driving distance. There’s Charlie, my cell phone, and if you can see him, well then I’d like to introduce myself, my name is Sara.
There’s also Percie, Bettie, Andie and Mikie. You might think this is insane. That it is not normal to feel this way about your things. And maybe that’s right but it’s not that I’m materialistic. I don’t need you to buy me stuff… I’ve got my own credit cards thank you. But there are certain items in my life that have become important to me.
And I explained all this to you so I can tell you that I’m moving. I am twenty-four years old and I am moving for the (hold on…) eighth time in my life. (ninth if you count the time My parents moved when I was a year old) This is made more burdensome if you consider that I was almost 19 the first time I moved. In five short years I have toured Philadelphia in a fashion that would make renters everywhere proud. You want to raise the rent? Fine. I can find better and cheaper.
The thing is I hate moving. I hate having to reallie visualize my life in boxes, not because it’s depressing (although that’s a part of it), but because I’m the one who has to put my life in those boxes.
I don’t have alot of furniture, but what I do have are things. I own a table top Christmas tree and a fake plastic pumpkin (even tho I am insistent about carving my own, NO MATTER WHAT). I have enough underwear to wear so that I would wear each pair only five times a year (and a shopping habit that reduces this number each year) What I do with them is I pack my breakables in my delicates. I have enough books so that if you boxed them all together, lifting them could be an event at an a weight lifting competition. And then I have clothing… I’m not one of those girls who has an outfit for every occasion, but clothes are heavy and they take up more room than you would think possible. I haven’t even attempted to find a way to pack my baking pans.
And the thing I hate about packing is that it turns me from a girl who loves her stuff… from a girl who names her most precious objects and might seriouslie consider abandoning someone who couldn’t love her bed like she could, to someone who hates all things. To someone who might cheerfullie consider throwing away a book. To someone who forgets that she is seriouslie sentimentallie attached to that giant box of mementos. I want to throw out things I haven’t used or don’t see the point of. I want to leave behind that lone mismatched fork. I want to have less things.
The problem is that after moving eight times the things you have left are things you love. Things you reallie love. These are things that have survived eight weeding outs. You have had these things since you were eighteen in many cases, and you’ll prollie have them forever, and there is nothing left for you to do, but to try to find enough boxes to fit a life in, and then try not to be upset by how few boxes there are.