I took this picture after the two gentlemen and one lady from Security Storage had wrapped, boxed, disassembled and neatly stacked most of our household items into this 20 foot container. A quick plug for this company – I meant it when I called them ladies and gentlemen. They were courteous, professional and hard working. The job took the better part of a day. When they were done, the house was mostly empty and I thought we had taken the biggest step towards our move to Uruguay. Fate had other plans and our move was to be delayed, but at least the things we chose to store are out of our way and safely secured in Security’s Dulles warehouse. Our nicest furniture is in that box, and frankly, I don’t miss it. That is the point of this post: you don’t need half the crap you think you need.
In the weeks building up to our planned move date, I slowly tried to shed the things we did not want to take with us and were not worth storing. Running out of time towards the end, I ended up going on a rampage and rounding up several truck loads of stuff and just taking them to a nonprofit organization in Herndon, VA which takes donations. Getting rid of things in such a manner is liberating. I was known to say often during this process “you don’t own your things, they own you”. It felt a little wasteful, but at the same time, I could feel somewhat good about it hoping it would go to someone who actually needed it and not end up in a landfill just yet. At the same time, I was repenting for my consumerist ways and pledging not to let the build up of excessive stuff happen again.
Sick of my soulless corporate job, I got rid of the vast majority of my suits and high heeled shoes. I did keep a couple of the nicer skirt suits, just in case I have to go to court or something like that. Harder was getting rid of old clothes that no longer fit me. I admit to hanging on to those size 4 Calvin Klein jeans that fit like a glove at one time. I’ll be back, girls. The skinny clothes dilemma is something many of us are familiar with. How can I fit back into that dress if I get rid of it? Getting rid of it seems almost tantamount to accepting the 10 pounds keeping me from slipping into it. Just tell yourself you can buy a whole new wardrobe – of current styles – once you regain your svelte physique. The jeans however, are staying.
Next to clothes, books are the hardest thing. Unless you really are going to read it again, or use it as reference, why keep a book around? The cynical answer is because they are trophies. One’s book case says, look how interesting I am, how well read. I always take great pleasure in perusing a person’s book collection. They say a lot about the owner. However, after culling the books I was embarrassed to have around, never read and never will, were downright bad, or were dated tech manuals, I could not part with the rest - which was most of them. This is because they remind me of things which once excited me or held my interest. Revisiting them can be like bumping into an old friend. I’ll keep those.
Clothing and books under control, we still had various knickknacks, small appliances, furniture and other flotsam and jetsam. Out went superfluous kitchen gadgets like the salad spinner. I rank this gadget right up there with the garlic press – a tool invented just so someone could sell you something. Out also went the crock pot. I don’t know how this Rachel Ray of cooking equipment made it into my house anyway. Among the many other things I tossed was the egg poacher – a pot of boiling water works just fine (sorry, Mom).
It’s funny how one rationalizes keeping certain things, either for sentimental or even superstitious reasons. That old lamp suddenly looks pitiful and sad when sitting in the to-go pile and I find myself feeling sorry for an inanimate object. But OUT it goes. Someone else will love it. That laminating machine which I used ONCE five years ago suddenly shines with possibility. OUT it goes as well. Again, someone else can make good use of it. More likely, it will sit in their closet for five years until they chuck it.
