- Loaded 1/3 of the bridal shower gifts into my car so I can transport them to the apartment tomorrow or Tuesday.
- Sorted through the old (bordering on ancient) AWP Chronicle mags and throwing out 15 of them. (I kept four because they had articles that looked interesting, but the probability is I will never read them.)
- Thrown away some ratty clothes, put away some nice clothes in a bag for Goodwill. Probably more will end up in this bag. But it seems I have to consider giving clothes away a couple times before I decide to actually do it. (Except for that hoodie in the back of my closet that an ex-boyfriend gave me. I could've sworn I'd already gotten rid of that. Into the bag.)
- Sorted through half a shelf of paper junk, including: my writing from when I was 15 and under; printed out emails; printed out recipes; printed out directions for polymer clay projects; my "I'm famous" folder of all my publications, newspaper appearances, etc; pictures people have drawn for me; etc. The recipes, polymer clay projects, etc have all been tossed. My writing and "famous" stuff is still around, but condensed into fewer folders.
- Made a half-hearted attempt to go through the letter drawer in the desk before realizing this was a project for another day. (Note that in addition to this drawer, I have six shoe-boxes full of handwritten letters.)
- Wrote this blog post.
I could throw away those letters.
But the thing is those letters--tangible objects--are really the only things that remind me of that part of my life. That those girls existed, that for a short time I was emotionally invested in them, and they (to varying degrees) in me. My trip to Rome; the school in Rhode Island; the organization and the good and bad memories I have of it ... That particular letter-writing phase was a small, distinct chapter in my life, one which carries meaning, but isn't something I carry around consciously. And I forget about it, even though it is, in some way, a part of me. It'll be in my psyche somewhere if I throw away the letters, sure. But will I ever remember it? Won't I be throwing away some tangible part of myself?
(This is probably how people become horders, isn't it?)
Most of the boxes in the new place are unpacked, except for the books. I don't want to bring boxes of baggage with me into a marriage, or leave (too many) of them behind for my parents to keep. But my tossing will be thoughtful. Maybe too much so. Maybe not.