I’ve discovered why people don’t move across the country: I lost my deodorant three days ago somewhere in my room. And I have to get rid of my Christmas decorations. This is demoralizing.

Yoh-gurt Froz

The only reason my bed is made is because I can’t get into it to sleep. To be under the covers would be torture anyway, as it’s 88 degrees inside our house with the AC on. Why must I choose to move during the heat wave of the century? The only solutions seem to be eating frozen yogurt for breakfast and sauv blanc for all other meals of the day. Coors Lite is the new water.

Going through all your clothes is quite the process. A little more complicated for me, as I will be going to Europe in a week, and then a family vacation to Mexico after that, and then home for three weeks, and THEN moving to North Carolina. So I have like eight different piles that somewhat overlap. Things to pack now, pack later, ship now, ship later, things to try to sneak into my parents’ garage and make them store for me forever….

Pile o' clothes

And the pile I have come to call the “Pile of Old Dreams.”

As I go through all my clothes, for the first time in my life, I am critically looking at each piece and asking myself, “Am I able to pull this off anymore, or is it too young/short/tight/doesn’t even fit/wore it in college?” And I’m making myself take these to Goodwill (after my scavenger roommates go through it).

It’s liberating in a way, to be getting rid of so many things that I know I won’t wear anymore, and it’s also bringing up these mixed feelings where I am facing the fact that I will be turning thirty next year, and am not the thin(ner), fashion-forward, sexier version of myself I have been throughout my twenties.

In light of the recent closet purge, I’ve also taken to making bold declarations:

  • “You are not allowed to buy anymore black tank tops.”
  • “Stop buying pink things. You don’t wear them.”
  • “Have these yoga pants ever even been to yoga?”
  • “No more SF Giants paraphernalia.” <– I almost mean this one.

It’s hard, too. As I go through the momentos and knick knacks that have made my house a home, I feel like I have to look at each picture or piece and ask it “are you worth the trunk space? Does this mean enough memory to me?” I’ve been through albums and albums and diaries and notebooks from elementary school through college, and I just feel mean throwing some of these photos and notes away. And I will cry over the cards a friend wrote me, or notes from my grandmas, or pictures of me laughing my face off in college. How long do you hold on to these?

At the same time, if I had never looked at the box and known what was in there, would I have ever “missed” them? Probably not.

The choosing of memories to hold on to is hard. The realization that this is really happening is also hard. Everything becomes “the last time.”

“the last rent check!” “the last black widow I kill here!” “the last time I make tater tots in this oven!” ” the last time we drink too much wine and watch Jersey Shore and fall asleep in the living room!”

my tinkly backyard
my tinkly backyard

Tonight is “last fire pit night!” where we light an unnecessary fire in this insane heat. We put on the twinkly lights, and pour the fun into a glass you have to shield from aggressive june bugs. We wax poetic on life in our late twenties: the wish we hads, wish we hadn’t, and the can’t wait to’s….

And I dream of a day when I will have my “forever home” and can finally have my Skymall Yeti garden statue to stay.

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