I can understand why my mother would have saved my baby teeth, but why the hell I would still be carting them around some half a century later is beyond me.
The danger of living in a large home is there are all sorts of places to hide crap you don’t know what to do with and don’t really want, but for some reason feel compelled to hold onto. Anyone need a catechism prayer book from 1959?
Leg warmers? I’m sure they’ll come back in style some day.
I know why I saved every single Jefferson Airplane record. That was great stuff, but who the hell was Jack Bonus and why do I have his album?
And don’t even get me started on my high school diaries. Who was that self-absorbed, boy-crazy little bitch and why was she allowed to live?
It’s been a busy time for the shredder.
I’m not as attached to my stuff as I would have thought. It’s been surprisingly easy to let go. Some of the things I cared about most are going to family members and good friends and that helps. When I finally get all moved into my tiny new place, I will have pared my life down to only the objects of my true affection.
Already, I feel a sense of freedom and lightness as I enter this new chapter of my life. Seventeen years is a long time to have been in one place. I always believed they’d carry me out of here feet first. Then someone else would have had to deal with all my crap. I wouldn’t have wished that on anyone I cared about. And I really would not have wanted them reading those diaries.
Here’s the view from my new abode. As you can see, I can practically touch the heavens. At my age, it’s wise to get a good place in line.
And to all you mothers out there, do your kids a favor. Throw away their fucking teeth.
