In the seemingly eternal quest to:
(a) clean my room
(b) unpack from moving home
(b pt. 2) unpack from moving home last year
(c) get organized
(d) become the world's next domestic goddess
I pulled every last cardboard box and plastic bin out of my closet and proceeded to painstakingly sort through the muddled mass of memorabilia. Accompanied only by my good friend the big, black garbage bag, I endeavored to determine what had to go and what would survive until next year.
At first it was relatively easy, who wants the reminders of that trial by fire we call American Heritage lurking about? And just how many bottles of hotel shampoo does one need? But about 2 hours into "Meet Joe Black" I hit a paradox (no, not a pair o' docs, I had made some progress and they were already neatly stored out of the way.) This paradox came in the form of that roadblock we call memory lane.
When I opened a box marked with malicious vagueness as “Taxes, Recipes & Other Files” what to my wondering eyes should appear but a colossal jumble of cards, certificates and other communications. So for the next hour or so, Mr. Garbage Bag went hungry as I relived Jr. High crushes as exposed in notes and emails, the love of family in cards and letters, and the glory of my days as a world-class shoe thief in an epistle demanding my immediate sale into slavery should the pilfered pair not be returned.
It was a bittersweet experience and though Martha Stewart would probably disapprove (but who am I to be affected by the opinion of an ex-con?), I boxed it all back up again (save for one birthday card from an old dentist) and put it back on the shelf. And although I did change the misnomer on the label to “Memories” so as not to be blindsided again, I think I’ll repeat the experience next year with my eyes wide open.