So in preparation for the Big Move (or, as I like to think of it, the impending BM), I’ve commenced a little sorting of my varied and sickeningly abundant possessions.
I started with vigor and a remarkable sense of purpose. I stripped my bed and stuffed my sheets into the washer with the half-baked notion that I'd be done with my room before you could say "air fluff." The vast expanse of the denuded queen-size bed sang a siren song of organization and hope for my hopelessly cluttered bedroom.
So, with my iPod playing through all those podcasts that I download but never play, I pulled armloads of stuff from the floor of my closet and heaved them onto the bed. Immediately, I was hit with the first sticky-sweet wave of nostalgia. Old letters, yearbooks, mix tapes. Forgotten pictures of forgotten people. Quilts and cellphone bills and gagets that my dad gave me for Christmas.
When I came to my senses, hours later, I was sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, the epicenter of a nostalgia earthquake. Letters and books and old t-shirts were scattered about me in a large circle of loose categories like "throw away," "return to friends," and "childhood."
It’s a little painful to say goodbye to that thought-I’d-be-able-to-fit-in-it-one-day shirt from Banana Republic and the I-know-the-elbows-are-worn-out-but-it’s-my-favorite sweater that saw my through my college years. But there is also something cathartic and satisfying about going through your things and coming out a little more focused. A little more organized. A little leaner.
Not that I've actually experienced the feeling, as yet. When I disembarked the nostalgia train it was well past my bedtime, and my sheets were still in the washer, fermenting.
So I raked all the stacks and piles and sundries off my bed and onto the floor and I pulled my comforter up over my shoulders.
I'll just have to get organized tomorrow.