July 21, 2010

Boxes stacked in the corner of my room, preparing to depart for a new part in the world. I have a love/hate relationship with packing. It frustrates me that things don’t fit perfectly into square boxes. Those harsh edges are so unforgiving to me and my things. Deciding what stays and goes can be stressful as well. I find myself staring at a tank top I haven’t worn since high school, telling myself, “But it looked so good that one time I wore it, and I felt cool in high school in it.” Then another voice says, “Dammit, throw it away hoarder!” “But if I wore it with a cardigan, I could be cool again.” “You haven’t worn it in years, and face it lady, you don’t fit into it.” “What if I miss it, though?” Much wasted time has spent agonizing over my junk. On the other hand, I like packing and knowing that I am going somewhere new. I like thinking not about me and where I’ve been and where I am going. I like to think of it through my object’s perspective, as if Toy Story is documentary instead of a children’s movie. My bobbleheads all turning to one another talking about New York, and how it is going to be okay because their record against the Yankees is usually pretty good. My books roll their eyes and search their pages for quotes on their soon-to-be-home.