(no subject)
I was supposed to be moving into my new studio (six blocks up the street!) June 18th. Now I'm moving Wednesday. So I'm a little stressed and rushed for time. But I must interrupt my packing right now to say one thing:
I have an absurd amount of purses. Seriously. It's ridiculous. But I refuse to give any of them up because they all represent sentimental memories. I can look at a purse and immediately remember some amazing time that I had when that particular one was on my shoulder. Seventy-five percent of them I haven't used in over a year. But I refuse. I refuse to let them go.
Is this one of the early signs of a pack rat? Is that going to be me in my old age? A house covered from floor to roof in every little belonging I have ever had in my life, because they all remind me of something and I don't know how to choose which memory is more important than another? Am I making an extremely large collection of purses more meaningful than needed? Probably, but still. Why can't I let go of things easily? Why do THINGS represent so much in my life? I should be able to live without much, yet in a little over a year and a half of starting over in Portland, Oregon, I somehow have accumulated so much stuff!
Moving is stressful. It makes you mull over your past and remember long lost things, while deciding what goes on with you to the next phase. It's only six blocks up the street, but it'll be my first real place totally and completely my own and no one else's. So I want to make sure I start it off right, and take only what I really need to complete whatever this next chapter is leading me towards.
And no matter how bold it stares at me on my inner right forearm, I'm having an extremely difficult time letting all things go.
And this is all because of the purses.
One day at a time.
I have an absurd amount of purses. Seriously. It's ridiculous. But I refuse to give any of them up because they all represent sentimental memories. I can look at a purse and immediately remember some amazing time that I had when that particular one was on my shoulder. Seventy-five percent of them I haven't used in over a year. But I refuse. I refuse to let them go.
Is this one of the early signs of a pack rat? Is that going to be me in my old age? A house covered from floor to roof in every little belonging I have ever had in my life, because they all remind me of something and I don't know how to choose which memory is more important than another? Am I making an extremely large collection of purses more meaningful than needed? Probably, but still. Why can't I let go of things easily? Why do THINGS represent so much in my life? I should be able to live without much, yet in a little over a year and a half of starting over in Portland, Oregon, I somehow have accumulated so much stuff!
Moving is stressful. It makes you mull over your past and remember long lost things, while deciding what goes on with you to the next phase. It's only six blocks up the street, but it'll be my first real place totally and completely my own and no one else's. So I want to make sure I start it off right, and take only what I really need to complete whatever this next chapter is leading me towards.
And no matter how bold it stares at me on my inner right forearm, I'm having an extremely difficult time letting all things go.
And this is all because of the purses.
One day at a time.