Why the hell do I own this?
I'm not just moving. I'm conducting an archaeological excavation through my own life.
I've started cleaning out my apartment.
Which sounds very responsible and adult like.
It is not.
It's more like opening cabinets and closets and asking myself:
"Why the hell do I own this?"
Apparently, I've spent years collecting things I don't need, don't use, don't remember buying and, in some cases, don't even understand.
So let's see what I find.
The Kitchen
Let's start with food storage containers.
I have approximately 40 of them.
Forty.
Because apparently I have been preparing for the possibility that one day I will need to store enough leftovers to feed a small army.
Except there's a problem.
12 have no lids.
But somehow...
I have 12 lids that fit absolutely nothing.
How?
Where did the containers go?
Did they leave?
Did the lids have a secret meeting and decide to stay behind?
I don't know.
But the 12 lidless containers?
Garbage.
The 12 lonely lids?
Also garbage.
But wait.
What if I throw them away and tomorrow the missing containers suddenly decide to come home?
What if their little container families have been separated all these years and I finally give up on them five minutes before they reunite?
I mean, what if they come back and their lids are gone?
I can't be responsible for that kind of heartbreak.
But I'm moving.
So I'm going to have to trust that if those containers and lids were truly meant to be together, they'll find each other somewhere in the universe.
I'm throwing them out.
Probably.
Maybe.
I'll think about it.
This is harder than it should be
Then I find three different sets of silverware.
Three.
Do I need three?
Probably not.
Two sets are definitely garbage.
Wait.
Maybe only one.
I might need the second one.
For what?
I have no idea.
But what if I have people over?
Apparently, in my imaginary future, I'm going to be hosting dinner parties for 14 people.
I'm moving into a two-bedroom apartment.
Who exactly do I think is coming over?
My Bedroom
This is where things get personal.
I found 22 socks with no matches.
Twenty-two.
At this point, I'm not sure whether I have a sock problem or whether there is a secret sock dimension somewhere in my washing machine.
But here's the thing:
I'm keeping them.
Not because I think I'll find their matches.
I'm going to use them to pack glass.
Because apparently my mismatched socks have finally found their purpose in life.
Then I found clothes I haven't worn in years.
Including clothes from when I was a size 2.
Wait.
Maybe a size 5.
Who am I kidding?
I was never a size 5.
It's time to be real with myself.
Donate.
And then there are the bras.
I have over 50 bras from Victoria's Secret.
Fifty.
Why?
I wear the same three.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Apparently I've been investing heavily in a very specific type of stock:
Victoria's Secret bra stock.
And now I understand why I'm broke.
My money is literally sitting in my closet.
Then I find shoes.
So many shoes.
Pairs I've worn.
Pairs I've worn once.
Pairs I've never worn.
Why do I own shoes I've never worn?
I don't know.
Maybe I thought one day I was going to become a person who wears those shoes.
Apparently that day never came.
I'm moving.
I'm taking the shoes I actually wear.
The rest?
Thank you for your service.
And then I found...
Two sleeping bags.
I have never been camping.
Not once.
Apparently I was planning for a very adventurous future that never happened.
Donate.
The Linen Closet
This is where I realize I may have a serious problem.
More than 15 throw blankets.
Fifteen.
I live in a two-bedroom apartment.
How many blankets could one person possibly need?
Apparently, enough to survive the next several winters in a small village.
Donate.
Then I find sheets and comforters that don't fit any bed I currently own.
Why do I still have them?
I have no idea.
Maybe I thought one day I would own the beds they fit.
Maybe I thought they'd come in handy.
Maybe I just couldn't let go.
Into the donate pile they go.
The Bathroom
Three bottles of peroxide.
Why?
Six bottles of saline solution.
Again...
Why?
Do I think the apocalypse is coming?
Apparently, if the apocalypse happens, my plan is going to be:
"Don't worry everyone. I have peroxide and saline."
And then there's the bar soap.
Does anyone even use bar soap anymore?
And does it expire?
I genuinely don't know.
I'm going to have to Google that.
Then I find cold medicine that expired two years ago.
Two years.
Apparently I've been saving it for the really special cold that can only be cured with expired medicine.
Nope.
Garbage.
And Then I Find the Pictures.
I find pictures of my daughters.
Graduation days.
First steps.
Halloween costumes.
All those little moments that seemed so ordinary at the time.
And now I'm sitting on the floor holding pictures of them and thinking:
How did that happen so fast?
I find pictures of my dad.
Pictures of him just sitting there holding my girls.
And I miss him.
Really miss him.
Those pictures stop me completely.
Then I find pictures of my nieces and nephews.
Birthdays.
Holidays.
Family gatherings.
People who were little in the pictures and are grown now.
And suddenly I'm surrounded by all these memories.
And I'm crying.
Because this is the stuff I can't put in the garbage.
This is the stuff that matters.
So Maybe That's What This Move Is Really Teaching Me
I'm learning that I've spent a lot of years holding onto things.
Clothes that don't fit.
Shoes I don't wear.
Blankets I don't need.
Containers without lids.
Lids without containers.
Sleeping bags I've never used.
Expired medicine.
Things I thought I might need someday.
Things I bought because I wanted them.
Things I kept because I couldn't let them go.
And then there are the things that actually matter.
Pictures.
Memories.
People.
Love.
Family.
The stupid road-trip karaoke.
My mom's love of Dunkin'.
My daughters growing up.
My dad holding my girls.
The life I've already lived.
Those things don't take up much room.
But they're the things I'm taking with me.
Maybe this is what "Less stuff. Less bullshit. More life." actually means.
It's not about having nothing.
It's about figuring out what deserves the space.
And apparently, 40 food storage containers don't.
Especially when 12 of them don't have lids.
Those things have got to go.
But the pictures?
The memories?
The people I love?
Those are coming with me.
Because I'm not moving to Tennessee to erase my old life.
I'm moving there to make room for a new one.
And apparently, I needed to clean out my closets before I could really understand the difference.
Now if you'll excuse me...
I have approximately 47 more cabinets to open and question my life choices.