Day Twenty-Nine

What She Wore: purple rugby shirt that I stole from my husband; blue jeans; tennis shoes.

I keep going to our new house and opening boxes. Notice, I said opening--not unpacking. I get the thing open and I think, "why the hell do I own this crap?" Box after box, I'm wondering why I have so much stuff.

I've found some fun items--love letters I sent my husband years ago, post cards I sent from Europe, a pep-talk I wrote when the Hub lost his pilot's slot, a list of things to have accomplished by 2007/2008. That last one is hilarious. Those things are little treasures.

By and large, however, I'm finding crap. After four months of stepping over piles of stuff to get around, I'm longing for some wide-open space. I need some breathing room, and this house is even smaller than our last. I open a box, take out a few things, and deem the rest to be junk. I'm feeling a serious purge/garage sale coming on. Starting fresh before my old ways force me to keep all this stuff: books I don't read, shoes I don't wear, dishes I don't use. What's the point in hording all this business? Who knows. I do know that I've lived four months without most of it, and there's no time like the present to get cleaned out.