The unbearable heaviness of stuff…

About once a year I have a breakdown around the amount of crap I have. Now let me be clear – compared to most people my age, I barely own anything. At least, I don’t own it here with me where I live. There’s an attic with Christmas decorations and some kitchen accoutrements stored in our house in California, and some boxes of diaries and old papers in my parents’ basement, and a closet at my in-laws, but that’s not here with me in Spain. I live a pretty minimalist life here, which comes from being an expat, especially when you’re not sure how long you’re going to be staying in the country. I hesitate to make big purchases – or even smaller ones that somehow feel more permanent and committal – because we may be back in America in a year. Why on earth would I buy a good blender now, when I may be moving across the ocean this year?

And so this nomadic existence has meant that we don’t have a lot of things you’d see in a normal house inhabited by 40-something parents. But I’ve made up for it by getting tons little things. Extra makeup brushes and lipsticks I don’t use. Pens and notebooks that remain blank because I do most things on my ipad now. And more recently, small bottles of hand sanitizer in fun scents, justified because we all need hand sanitizer now, right, so why not make it fun?

I also have a thing for headphones. Sometimes people send lovely expensive ones to me to review as part of my podcasting world. Other times, I buy them impulsively, the way I tried three different kinds of fake AirPods, rather than just shell out the money for the real thing (I finally decided on a pair of Beats by Dr Dre because they fit over your ear, which is perfect for working out, so they don’t slip out) (that’s what she said) (I have the sense of humor of a 14 year old boy).

That was what led me to a breakdown of sorts the other night. I couldn’t find my charging case for my Beats. I looked everywhere. I normally wear one side while I’m in the kitchen cooking or cleaning up – I can listen to my audiobook, but also hear my kiddo, and anything else going on in other rooms. I plug everything in to charge overnight, and, being a creature of habit, I get very frustrated when the charging schedule goes wonky.

I finally found them in my purse (because of course I would put something in my purse, especially when we, like, never leave the house) but the hours leading up to the discovery, when I was rifling through random drawers and spaces, were filled with many exclamations of, “why do I own this?”

A few years ago I lost my cell phone in a store, which also prompted a similar frustration around owning too much sh*t (in this case it was because all that sh*t was in my bag).

So I’m on another purge of stuff. And it’s getting harder. Today I put aside a top I bought before I was married. I remember getting it – it’s a filmy boho style, with little golden specks on this thin pink patterned fabric, with bells and ties. It’s totally something that 28 year old me would have worn. Actual 44 year old me hasn’t worn it in at least 9 years. The elastic is all pulled, and while there wasn’t much structure to it to begin with, what little there was has disappeared, so it won’t even stay on my shoulders. Hannah thinks this is cool, and says I look like Belle in it, which would be nice, but Belle’s dress is made to look that way. With this, it’s just that the sleeves hang down to my knee. The height of fashion in 12th century Normandy. Not a good look now.

I kept it with me because it has sentimental value. It’s one of the few pieces of clothing I’ve had since before I was married, or even knew my hubby. I used to wear it in a different life – a life where I went to bars, and flirted with strange guys (and sometimes strange girls) and sometimes had drunken slobbery kisses with random people while techno music pumped through my veins, mixing with large quantities of alcohol.

I feel like, as long as I have this shirt, there’s still that person in me. That shirt is my link to the person who doesn’t empty the dishwasher each day, and who doesn’t pack the school lunch, and who stays out way too late wearing clothing that isn’t appropriate for the weather.

And I’m not totally ready to give up on that chick, either. I don’t know that I will ever make out drunkenly with a stranger at a bar again, but holding onto that shirt isn’t going to affect the chances of it either way. It’s just going to be one more thing I have to keep track of in my life. And honestly, if I’m going to make out with a stranger in a bar, I don’t want to be wearing that shirt. Because I don’t think any discerning stranger at a bar would make out with me wearing it, and I would only make out with discerning drunk people at this point in my life.

(Also, I haven’t run any of this past my hubby, but I’m sure he would be in full agreement, both about the probabilities of drunken make out sessions -he might actually be into it – who knows – and the likelihood of being the recipient of a drunken make out session while wearing said shirt.)

The point is, I’m getting rid of the shirt because it has no bearing on whether I will ever go to a club with loud techno music and flirt with strangers, or not. It doesn’t fit me. The sleeves are medieval. The elastic on the neck is all stretched out. There’s no reason to keep it other than the memories. And in another five decades or so, I’ll either be a very old lady, or I’ll be gone, and that shirt won’t mean anything to anyone who is left. I’m certainly not going to tell Hannah that she should hang on to my boho bar-hopping shirt, and give it to her children someday so that they can wear it on a Saturday night. It’s not quality enough to ever be vintage.

So the shirt is going in the pile of stuff I don’t need to be carrying around with me. I’ve carried it around with me from California to Spain. I don’t need to keep lugging it around.

I took a picture of it to remember it by, and I tossed it. And yes, it was a bit sad. And I cried a little bit, and listened to some early 2000’s music and pretended I was 25 again. But I was listening on my Beats earbuds, while I was cooking a healthy dinner, so, you know, that kind of killed the mood. Life moves on. The stuff doesn’t have to come with us and weigh us down.