There’s nothing quite like moving to force the prioritization of four decades of memories and century-old family heirlooms in to the protective embrace of Home Depot boxes. Honestly, I love it. Donating, gifting, and discarding tantalize every iota of my O.C.D.; the less crap, always the better.
“You can’t take it with you” runs through my head as sweat drips down my face; the hotbox that is my garage is great for a detox and distilling things to bare essentials.
Do I really need to keep the pointe shoes I’ve had since grammar school? Yes, they’re a trophy.
Is this blank Modern Family notebook from Comic-Con ever going to be used? Eh, recycle.
Will I wear these strappy sandals in Sweden between the months of November and February? LMFAO.
I’m a compartmentalizer; I want to leave San Diego neat and tidy so that brain space and emotional warehousing are bright and clear of cobwebs. I’m getting there but it’s going to keep on keepin’ on until I pull out of the driveway.
So for now, back to shoveling through my accumulation.